


Fate/Mythologie

by Ovg8



Category: Fate/Prototype: Fragments of Sky Silver, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Cross-Posted on Beast's Lair, Gen, Holy Grail War (Fate), Post-Canon, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 127,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29238429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ovg8/pseuds/Ovg8
Summary: Years after Snowfield, the Holy Grail War returns to the United States. Seven Masters prepare to wage a secret battle royale with their Servants in suburbia. On the eve of the war, the death of a prominent bishop shifts the Holy Church’s internal balance of power, throwing families, alliances, and the overseer, an Executor-in-training, into complete disarray.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 2





	1. 0/ Unscriptural

_I will kill. I will let live. I will harm and heal._

_None will escape me. None will escape my sight._

_Be crushed._

_I welcome those who have grown old and those who have lost._

_Devote yourself to me, learn from me, obey me._

_Rest._

_Do not forget song, do not forget prayer, do not forget me._

_I am light and will relieve you of all your burdens._

_Do not pretend._

_Retribution for forgiveness, betrayal for trust, despair for hope, darkness for light, dark death for the living._

_Relief is in my hands. I will add oil to your sins and leave a mark._

_Eternal life is given through death._

_Ask for forgiveness here. I, the incarnation, will swear._

_\- Kyrie Eleison_

*****

**0/ Unscriptural**

My first memory was of the other kids in the ward telling me that it was pretty gay that a Catholic priest regularly visited me. I only understood what they meant a few years later. To clarify, the priest would entertain my ten-year-old self with stories about his students or his travels. He was an elderly bishop who happened to be in town and heard about my parent’s accident. In fact, the first time I heard about ‘the accident’ was from his lips.

Car accident. Drowning. You almost drowned too.

The accident removed all ten years of my memory, so I was more relieved than sad when I heard the news.

“So that’s why I see bubbles when I’m asleep.”

He couldn’t look me in the eye.

The next day, he came back without the youthful glow that was uncharacteristic for a man that bore his burdens, yet was characteristic of his nature. All his travels seemed less fantastic, more mundane; all the people he had met seemed less magical, more pedestrian.

“Chris,” he said. “I don’t want to lie to you. Your parents didn’t die in an accident, they were killed by a monster. I’m part of an organization that is supposed to protect people. I’m sorry. We couldn’t save them.”

I think at that point I started crying. Incredulous words from an incredulous person, I know. I wasn’t mourning the parents I never knew or my own uncertain future. These were frustrated tears mourning the me who should have been mourning his parents.

He stayed with me until I had cried my eyes dry before excusing himself. Later that night the other kids all gave me their desserts. I remember one older kid patted me on the back and told me she would put in a good word for me with her father. He was a lawyer.

It must have been a week before the bishop visited me again. I think it was beyond my ten-year old self to have considered it was due to the legal prowess of that girl’s father, but that’s what I want to believe I thought happened when he came through the door. The moment he sat down, I told him that I was onboard. He tried his best to smile at that. From how he told stories, he seemed more like a person who smiled with his eyes.

“I thought you would say that. That’s why I wanted to give you as much time as possible to reject it. Becoming a member of the Church isn’t your only option.”

I knew that all too well. The kids in the ward would often either talk about what their parents did or what they wanted to do when they left the hospital: police officer, dressmaker, pilot, secret agent, hairdresser, unicorn, a wizard by the age of thirty, dog trainer, fairy princess. Me? I couldn’t help wondering about the boy who died with his parents in that lake, the boy who owed me nothing, but whom I owed my current life. If I could be anything, anyone that I wanted to, then I think I would like to be him so that boy wasn’t forgotten.

I didn’t say that out loud. I don’t think that my ten-year-old self could articulate something that raw but contradictory. I probably said I wanted to make my parents proud or wanted vengeance against the monster. Whatever I said didn’t satisfy the bishop who apologized and said that he couldn’t take care of me. That role would fall to one of his students.

Her name was Cherry. At first, I heard it as Cherie, but no, it was definitely Cherry. She blossomed into a smile and told me that she always wanted a little brother. Like that, I had procured a new family member.

“What about that old man in the corner? I’ve seen him walking around the hospital.” I pointed to the right corner of the sterile, artificial room the bishop and I usually had our conversations in.

The bishop looked at Cherry for a moment and back at the frocked old man.

“That’s Karabo. He’ll be your foster father.”

At the mention of his name, the old man waved.

“Since this is going to my last time visiting you, Chris. There’s something that I want to tell you. Do you two mind giving us some time alone?”

After shooing my new foster family outside, he helped himself to a plastic chair made for kids pretending to have tea on a comically tiny and misshapen table.

“I’m often shocked when I brush my teeth, Chris. I feel twenty-two but that’s not what that cheeky mirror tells me. In all my adventures, all the places I’ve traveled, all the people I’ve met, all the sins I can’t atone for, I’ve learned one thing. It’s something that took me until my dotage to realize and that’s why I hope you’ll humor me in listening.” He tried to lean back on the chair, “In this life, I hope you chose for yourself, you’ll meet a lot of strange people. In our line of work, you’ll see things and obtain powers that you didn’t know were possible. Mor – nay, most importantly, you’ll experience enough pain, sadness, happiness, and weakness to understand that you are nothing more than a mere human being. There are a lot of people in our world who are claimed to be holy or even saintly. Most of the time that’s some form of clericalism. All of us, no matter who we are, are merely idiotic, pathetic, weak human beings.”

“What about the monsters?”

He laughed, “I did call them that. This might be a heretical opinion but they’re not monsters. As long as anyone has lived a semblance of a life, there is no way you can call them a monster. They’re only called monsters because we refuse to try.”

With those un-priestly words, he got up, shook my hand, and gave me a hug. I still remember the smell of sandalwood.

“Bishop Dilo… I… thank you.”

He shook his head and smiled. The gesture refused to light up his face.

“This... isn’t a fate that you should thank me for.”

With those ominous words, he left. The next day I was discharged and my new mismatched foster family took me to my new home. Ten years late, but that was the day Chris Frampton was born.


	2. 1/ Day by Day

1 **/ Day by Day**

“You can get up, class is over.”

Harsh, artificial light still illuminates the classroom even as the clock in the corner duly ticks towards five past noon. The glare makes me want to rub my eyes, but that would be rude to the only other person present. He rummages through his briefcase and takes out two round Tupperware containers.

“Gotta run, so let’s make this quick.” Mr. Stevenson’s lips may be puckered but his eyes aren’t furrowed. He should rush out before the line for the teacher’s microwave becomes as long as the cafeteria chicken finger line. “Got a good reason for sleeping in class?”

“Yesterday’s Mass went pretty late,” I manage to say without yawning.

Mr. Stevenson nods as if he expected something that wholesome from a wholesome kid like me.

“Well, it’s only your second time so I’ll let it slip. Just don’t set a bad example for the other kids, okay? You’re a good kid, so I’m counting on you for that.”

He grabs a snack-sized packet of Let’s out of his bag in reply to my short smile.

“Want ‘em?”

Before I can answer they land on my pencil tin — official merchandise of an ironic webcomic that’s already ‘so last year’ — with an initial crackle before a softer crunch. Original flavor. Probably the last packet from a Costco case.

“Cutting this month,” he explains without being asked before rushing out the door to microwave what must be his meal prep.

Ruminating on the chips, I make my way through the school corridors. It’s hard not to feel the oppressive spirit of the institution when it’s scrawled onto butcher paper emblazoning the walls. Some of the people I come across say hi, but everyone’s in too much of a subdued rush to get to the cafeteria to stop for a conversation. Chicken fingers today. It’s the panko, some of the kids will tell you. But a bag of Panko is two dollars at Albertsons. Nah brah, they get the same chicken as McDonald's; it’s like eating a huge McNugget. No matter who you talk to, they will always stretch out the ‘huge.’

I stop at my locker, drop my bag, fiddle with the combination, fail once, make a face at my locker, and try again before retrieving two thermoses’.

“Reckon Mr. Stevenson is a Costco dad?”

From the speckled, pale linoleum floor, Kayla opens her mouth to answer, closes it, and then opens it once more to assert, “Dude, I’ve seen him and his wife at Whole Foods. And anyway he’s too young to have kids, yeah.” She animatedly shakes her head.

“Doesn’t stop him from being a Costco dad.”

“I’m pretty sure you have to be a dad before you can be a Costco dad.” Her head bobs up and down in a series of half-nods.

“Yesterday’s leftovers.” I hand Kayla a thermos from the bag. “Weird how warm they are.”

“Chicken fingers beat leftovers any day, but like this looks so good.” She unscrews the thermos, takes out her phone and snaps a few pictures to be posted later before digging in. “Cherry’s always so cool.”

“You don’t even like seafood.”

“I like whatever Cherry cooks and err — yeah, sushi.”

“Half-priced California rolls aren’t really sushi.” I stab my plastic fork into a piece of cod. It’s not quite fit to eat just yet without wasabi. I tear at the slit of a takeout wasabi packet with my teeth and squeeze out a pea-sized dollop onto the fish before putting it in my mouth. Usually, ‘Wasabi Chris’ has a tube on hand but I was in a rush this morning so I only have the packets I keep at the bottom of my bag.

“Half-priced California rolls aren’t really sushi because they’re best sushi,” Kayla fills her mouth with shrimp. “You’re so lucky to have someone who cooks food like this for you every day.”

Genuine food. Genuine conversation. Fake relationship. Perhaps the only way that it can stand being this fake due to the underlying sincerity.

She hands me the empty thermos when she’s finished eating, “Thanks for lunch.”

“You know, Cherry actually thinks that we’re dating.”

A slight frown pushes her features back when she responds, “Sorry, so does my dad,” with a lowered voice.

You moved from New York to this town slightly less in the middle of nowhere than Bakersfield. Your superlative was ‘most quiet’ in middle school but you’ve become slightly high-school attractive since then. You hate the spotlight, yet are still rather thrilled with the attention that comes with being the ‘new girl.’ Rightly nervous about fitting in at this school, you feign poise, trying to convince others that you’re pretty ‘lit’ but still ‘chill af’ before you’re labeled as the quiet kid all over again. So, you do something that the New York you would never do. The most obvious thing to convince your dad and everyone else at school that you fit is to imitate every movie and song targeted towards teenage girls. You get a boyfriend. But you don’t believe you have the confidence or the special something that the popular girls have to transpose film into reality so you settle for convincing a non-threatening boy to be your pretend boyfriend. That’s me. Why?

“Everyone likes you ‘cause like… I mean, you’re easy to talk to.”

“Really?”

“And you seem like you’re good at pretending. Umm, like you would be good as a good actor, you know… sorry.”

Those were the words you mumbled to me when you exhausted all the fear-tinged courage were able to pull out. Because, you realized if you didn’t do something this radical you would fall back into that middle school you no matter how far away you were from where you grew up. Theater-kid jab aside, you don’t have to force yourself to apologize then smile when you say something like that. We don’t know each other too well, but I probably like you, anyway. After all, why else would I agree?

Like that, my fake RomCom consisting of lunchtime each day, the farmer’s market every Thursday night, and a pretend date a few times a month burgeoned. Does any more need to be?

“So yeah, you doing anything after school today?”

“Cherry wants me to pick up a pie. The old man’s birthday.”

“Oh… cool.” She smiles and looks down before looking slightly back up. “You’re the only person I know who calls his dad, old man.”

He _is_ an old man.

*****

The town did try to shut the cafe down. What was wrong with Kreuzberg, they exclaimed. Why name a new one after a Nazi think-tank? Like that, the new coffee shop became the talk of the town for about a week. There were even town hall meetings about it. Cherry and Father Kelsey attended a few. Something about the Mission making sure everyone kept a level head. In the end, the smooth-talking interim manager who was also the head chef made the argument that the franchise had spread as far as Japan and even had a store in Romania without causing little more than a peep. Apparently, the name was thought up by the German owner and this cafe happened to either be his inheritance or the inheritance he would leave behind. Hearing this, the folks at Beda’s and the other German establishments threw some of their weight around. One of our own, you understand. Eventually, the town just threw up their arms. The cafe market was already too saturated, the housewives proclaimed to each other before Pilates, Ahnenerbe would be gone in less than a year.

It’s been open for over three years. They’ve all moved onto Hot Yoga.

“Picking up a large blueberry pie for Cherry,” I tell one of the waitresses who everyone calls ‘Green.’

She glances underneath the lacquered counter, “Let me check with the kitchen.”

I smile in place of an answer.

“Sorry, is ten minutes okay? Do you want something while you wait?” She says after returning, slightly flustered.

After telling her it’s no problem, I’m left with her abandoned flip phone while she attends to two chatting short-haired blond women. In less than a minute the store cats swamp me. This store has quite a few cats. Maybe the manager has a habit of picking up strays? If NorCal and SoCal have their premier cat cafes then the Central Coast has got to keep up, doesn’t it?

“Meow, Meow,” That’s from the little girl who creeps up the stool next to mine.

The cats all hiss at her before scattering. “You know — they don’t like you, Curie.”

She shakes her head. Her black hair almost seems blue and green in the dimmed light.

“They like me when you’re not here. They’re funny, especially the one who smokes.”

“Wow, that’s interesting.” My wavering voice tries its best to hold the disbelief in my stomach. Time to quickly change the subject, “Did that no-good Detective leave you on your own again?”

“Toilet.”

Speak of the toilet. The Detective struts towards us in his monochrome trench coat and expensive skinny jeans.

“Oh, it’s you, kid. Your pretend girlfriend dump you yet?”

Try as he might to get people to call him Detective, he’s still just a PI. A PI with a little girl as an assistant, both of whom I’ve only ever seen in this cafe. Questionable, I know. But, we’re regulars so we have little choice but to afford the other a modicum of respect. He might give off the impression of a side dish Cherry makes when cucumbers are on sale, but still, he’s still a person, like me.

“She’s doing pretty well. Thanks for asking. You two on a case?”

He looks at me with a half-scowl. I must remind him of some kid that he couldn’t stand with and without. “Better watch out, kid. Word in the cafe is something bad’s going down in that town of yours.”

I nod, “That’s why we got this blueberry pie.”

“Blueberry pie!” Curie’s eyes sparkle. “Detective, pie! Pie!”

“Shut it, girl. We have food at home. Hey, waitress!” He calls out to the fluttering twin-tails that were just about to slip into the kitchen. “Nitro cold brew and don’t skimp on the Ceylon cinnamon.” He looks back at me. “Advice — regular to regular. Couldn’t care less about you, but don’t let that woman who takes care of you get caught in this mess.”

A clear ring interrupts him.

“Order twenty-seven, blueberry pie,” A voice with the charisma of a fake priest, the timbre of a zoology professor, and the composure of a Buddhist monk calls out.

I pay with the bill Cherry gave me this morning before taking the paper bag.

“Thanks for the advice, Detective. This pie smells delightful, so I better get home while it’s hot.”

He shakes his head and dismisses me with a few waves.

“Hey, Chris.” The little girl looks at me, “Don’t die, okay? The cats and the Detective will be sad.”

I don’t know what to say.

“If you’re scared, just come to me.” She smiles and it must be a trick of the light because it almost looks like she has chelicerae, “I’ll make sure you live forever.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” I wave goodbye to the pouting little girl and leave the cafe with delicious blueberry pie in tow.

*****

Winters in Tolosa are rather mild since we’re only twenty minutes from the beach, an hour in severe summer traffic. It can get a little misty around the Seven Sisters in the early morning, but afternoons are always hot. That afternoon heat dissipates a few hours after sunset, so families and small crowds strolling and window shopping around this time aren’t an uncommon sight. I say that because halfway home, I shivered. I shivered even if there was no wind, the sun was still peeking over the horizon, and I was wearing my school sweatshirt. Then again, none of those things are much protection against a tidal wave of magical energy crashing into your body.

“Servants have the worst timing.” I scold the blueberry pie.


	3. 2/ Day bye Day

**2/ Day bye Day**

There wasn’t time to go back to the Mission and change into my Ash Lock. The best I could prepare was a simple suggestion on my Mission Prep sweatshirt which stopped anybody questioning why a student was jumping rooftop to rooftop at breakneck speed while on his phone. There’s nothing to it, just one foot after the other. Keep calm and carry on civilian because everyone else is minding their own business so you should —

“Ah,” I stretch my arm out to grab the ledge of a roof.

I totally missed the landing. Too close. What did Cherry say? When you’re using a suggestion, you need to pay attention. Make sure you don’t lose yourself in the equivalent exchange. Come on, get a grip. Pull yourself up and keep going. Not too far now.

My excuse for that lapse: Cherry wasn’t answering her phone and I can’t trouble an old man on his deathbed. As for the city rangers, getting government employees involved in a potential combat situation would only make matters worse. I’ll be on my own, but that’s what all the training was for. Just before entering the trail take a deep breath and calm down. Instead, I choke on my own saliva.

Magical energy saturates the mountain trail, but there was no sign of anyone else. It looked as though a firestorm had roared through the area. All the brown grass and foliage that covered the trail is nowhere to be seen and the smoke from the cluster of blackened trees hangs low in the air.

Strong fire, but it hadn’t spread. One of the Masters was prudent enough to section this area off with a bounded field so the battle wouldn’t set the entire mountain ablaze. More interestingly, the number of trees on this trail had exponentially increased since the last time we surveyed this volcanic plug. Tolosa county might be out of the drought, but there hasn’t been enough rain to support a burgeoning minor forest this side of the Grade.

Mountain trails in Tolosa are usually covered in shrubs that won’t protect you from the sun. You can usually see everyone hiking that day from the base of the mountain. These trees that have appeared overnight must be some mystery. My hand strokes the trunk of the nearest tree to confirm my suspicions. Instead of scraping against well-worn bark, the trunk bubbles, sucking in my hand.

THE BAND WAS NOT BUILT IN A DAY.

dO nOt fOrgEt

Crying women fill the beach. Too exhausted, too cold, too sore. So burn those ships. Burn our captors-turned-husbands’ hollow ships. We may never see our homes again but you already ensured there would be no home to return to. Trapped as we are, at the very least, we will make sure you are no less trapped than we. Helpless loneliness in a foreign land should be your only reward, o’ bronze-armored heroes. On this altar of flames, let us make and take our marital vow; let only unhappiness sprout from this wedding bed.

THE GREED WAS BUILT ON USURPATION

Do NoT FoRGeT

YOU CAN (NOT) PRUNE THIS BRANCH. SEVEN TREES A FOREST DOES NOT MAKE IF ONE IS ROTTEN. YOURS MAY BE AN EMPIRE BUT MINE IS OUR SIN BEFORE IT WAS OURS.

With a yelp I snatch my hand back from the inside of the bubbling tree. I don’t know what I just saw but my head won’t stop throbbing no matter how much I rub it. I’m far from an expert but these trees might be made of something that shouldn’t exist on this plane. The other Servant was right to burn them down; too bad they weren’t able to burn them to dust.

So, this is the aftermath of a battle between mysteries. I don’t have any combat experience, but I’ve been training for this since I was ten. I won’t let myself be shocked. All that I’m meant to do is help with two weeks’ worth of damage control — make sure nothing gets out of hand.

When I read the previous reports on the Holy Grail War, I was able to write off the scale of damage, saying that it wouldn’t be that bad in Tolosa because we’re better prepared. When confronted with this wanton destruction, I can’t help but wonder if the Mission is just a scapegoat for when the entire city burns. I shake my head. Alright, we discussed the protocols every fortnight for the last year in those shady town meetings. I’ll be fine. This city will be fine.

Home button, contracts, search bar, c-i-t-y-space-r-a-n-g-e-r, home phone, because I never save numbers on my phone as anything other than home. The city rangers should already be on high alert since we sent them a picture of the spirit board when the sixth Servant was summoned.

The phone starts making the call; I wonder who’s on duty tonight. If it’s one of the interns from the local college, I’m going to have to hang up and ring the emergency number. Someone’s not going to be happy about being dragged away from their TV during primetime. Eh, wasn’t Mr. Kars saying how awesome it was getting Hulu with his family’s Spotify Premium plan last week? Okay, I feel less bad now.

The first ring finishes. Usually, there’s no problem with reception in this area, so the call should go through after the second one. But, that second ring never comes since I have to tap cancel. The hairs on my arms are on their ends again and this time I might actually be sick from the amount of magical energy no… pure divinity that’s permeating the air.

Throw all the hotpot from lunch up and wipe your mouth already, there’s a good boy. Now, take a deep breath, and extend those threads of consciousness. What you’re looking for isn’t the incandescent, burning star in the middle of the school that’s obvious to anyone, but any smaller embers that might be wandering nearby.

Okay, I was a little worried that some regulars who had a bit too much to drink at Central Coast might come this way or some of the tourists eating at Splash would waddle down towards the creek beside the high school after a clam chowder bread bowl. There doesn’t even seem to be anyone lighting up before having a beer or three in the public-school parking lot. In any case I better get going; I can feel the beginnings of a bounded field.

*****

I bet the Fishing Cats have never played a team that could tear up the turf like this. The Astroturf is repeatedly ruptured, the soil underneath sprays from the football field onto the track, and the goal posts are transformed into giant tuning forks. The shocks from each clash resonates with anything made of metal creating an eerie hum that lingers over the battle. Even the bleachers I’m hiding myself under are rattling like they’re in danger of collapsing.

I made it inside the bounded field before it was fully established, so the conjuror shouldn’t know there’s an extra person inside. Bounded fields aren’t really my specialty even if they should be. From what I can gather, this field is only meant to obscure the battle and repel anyone who might be interested in coming into the stadium. As for the caster, only one Master is visible from this angle. The other could be obscuring themselves with the bounded field. It goes without saying, there’s a clear advantage to being able to observe your enemy from an unseen position.

As for the reason why the Masters haven’t noticed my presence yet, well, it’s right in the middle of the field — two men larger than life itself. It might be more apt to call them forces of nature. One statuesque man, naked except for a warrior’s skirt rushes into the fray like lightning. His fist that surpasses Godspeed repeatedly aims for the other’s vital areas. But if the first is like lightning, then the other man, encased in steel, is like a tornado. With an ornate great shield in hand, he redirects each blow before using his entire body to slam into the warrior. This is a battle between Servants, supernatural combat beyond the comprehension of humans.

The only thing on my mind right now are those Marvel superhero movies I watched with some other kids in middle-school. Impressed by what I saw, I tried to incorporate some of those acrobatics into my regular training. The old man bopped me on the head and asked where I got such idiotic ideas from. Luckily, some of the movies had been uploaded to the streaming platform the Mission subscribes to for ‘Movies at the Mission.’ When he watched the battle scenes he softly yawned and told me this wasn’t how people in our line of work wanted to move or fight. In these movies, he said, the flow of the battle is always centered around the protagonists. Directors do their best to portray the protagonist's drama through combat while trying to entertain the audience. In the battlefield, even though everyone may have roles, everyone will fight as if they are the protagonist. Real fights like the one unfolding before my eyes are a jumbled mess of apprehension and ego, not a well-choreographed blade dance.

After what seems like the tenth exchange of blows but possibly the seventieth, the Servants break apart from one another. The warrior relaxes his grotesque muscles and looks at his Master with a slight frown. A normal person would crumble under that gaze. In fact, just looking at the scene sends my heart into a panic. Instead, his Master meets the gaze with her clear red eyes. They remind me of the prologue of Snow White, where Snow White’s mother sees her blood on the snow. That pale hair and pale skin looks so unearthly at first glance, but the more you look at her — the more you look at her the more you realize how inhumanly natural she looks. Strange. We were told the Einzbern were no more, so there’s no way an Einzbern homunculus was going to be present in this iteration, yet here she is.

“I was mistaken to insult you.” Deliberate or not, the giant Servant calls everyone to attention. “Your blows have cleared my mind. But wispy clouds are much more visible hanging from a clear sky. Faithfully, you are a proper hero. So why? Two-on-one, especially when the singular is a lady is never honorable.”

The armored Servant removes his helmet. He must be so proud of that beard that somehow accentuates his jawline, “I would have never dreamed to hear a pagan monstrosity talk of honor.” His face may be worn from countless battlefields but there’s an unquenchable vigor in his eyes. “But that lady you spoke of and sought to aid is far from harmless. Surely, your esteemed self must have encountered those of the fairer sex who were more serpent than angel in your illustrious adventures?”

Eyes distant, the almost-naked warrior rubs his chin, “Slight, aside….”

The sound of a grenade going off fills the field a second before the strange ringing of metal grinding against metal. In less than an instant the armored Servant was sent flying into the opposing bleachers. No one saw the warrior move. Truly, with that body he may as well be an ancient marble statue. But that dust cloud rising from the bleachers says otherwise. Taking advantage of the lapse in attention his words created, the warrior must have closed the gap in less than a second to send the knight flying before any sort of defense could be raised.

“Yes. Slight, aside,” The warrior turns on his heel to face the damage he caused as something materializes in his hand. “You’re quite right. That lady was quite far from harmless. But, you, you may as well be a continent away from harmless.”

He raises and pulls back the monstrous, black thing in his hand in one motion. I blink. A barrage of projectiles fills the night between the warrior and the bleachers. Each one of those projectiles was shot with enough force to bring down a small house. All of them rain down upon the already devastated grandstand, clearing the previous cloud of destruction and giving birth to a new, much larger one. The tremors from the attack even shatter the portion of the bounded field behind the grandstand.

One of the three knight classes — knight of the bow, Archer.

The class make up for their low base attributes with seasoned tactical reasoning and extremely powerful trump cards. Intuitively, one would expect that the Archer class would indeed be made of soldiers who use bows; however, contrary to common belief, the qualifying conditions is merely the possession of a projectile Noble Phantasm or special abilities related to projectiles. With their class skills, Magic Resistance and Independent Action, they are highly regarded as scouts or rangers. Think Legolas or Jennifer Lawrence. This Archer is more like mobile heavy artillery than an elf or a girl from a movie I’ve never seen.

It takes a few seemingly minute-length seconds for the cloud to dissipate. For even the greatest Servant, a barrage of A-rank attacks is more than certain death. Yet, there is no body among the rubble, only a shield broken beyond repair.

“Haaa —!” A hearty shout accompanies a wide swing at Archer’s blind spot. The brilliant cloth on the knight’s armor is charred; the armor itself is bent and fragmented in multiple places. There’s even a deep gash above the knight’s eye, but he does not, cannot, care about that now. Because, in the place of that beaten shield, those two arms are carrying the weight of an enormous war hammer swung with all of the knight’s strength.

“Archer!” His Master’s bell-like cry lets all of us know how serious the attack is.

Archer’s surprised expression tightens with his leg muscles. Pivoting, Archer meets the attack with his bare first.

Hammer meets fist.

There’s a saying about an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force. This is more like two unstoppable forces. The raw magical energy of their clash electrifies the entire stadium and the aftershock shatters all of the stadium lights. Some of the benches are crushed or ripped off the bleachers.

The two in the eye of this maelstrom haven’t moved an inch.

“Your name is almost too easy to discern if you bring that out.” The knight’s voice is raspy. He draws his war hammer back and puts some distance between himself and the warrior.

In reply, the giant silently flexes his hand. His fist is undamaged. But, I was wrong in my previous description. He didn’t retaliate with a bare fist; it was wrapped.

“Bring out your trump card. It won’t help, but at least you’ll perish into the night knowing you gave your best.”

The knight chuckles. The tone is anything but lighthearted. “If I were to use my trump card, it would bring shame to your name, for you would be known as nothing more than a great hero who couldn’t even last the first night.”

Murderous intent so intense I almost lose consciousness flavors the magical energy radiating from the two. It’s so excessive that it saturates the entire bounded field, oppressing everyone in this location. The only ones allowed to breathe in this space are undoubtedly the two in the center. That was why no one expected the little pebble that was thrown between the two Servants glaring at each other. A tiny, tiny pebble, insignificant as the ripples it would make if dropped into an ocean. Yet, the fact would always remain that the stone was indeed cast and the ripples drawn. Most of all, weak as those ripples may be, they were just strong enough to move someone’s fate.


	4. 3/ Door to Paradise

**3/ Door to Paradise**

**~Interlude~**

Lenny would never name her snakes.

When she lived in America, she saw a movie about a wizard who could talk to snakes. After the movie, her co-workers asked her whether or not she was going to name her snakes. That annoyed her to no end. Mind your own mystery, especially if you have enough time to worry about mine. That being said, her co-workers weren’t the type to casually see movies with other co-workers. They were magi for god’s sake; they were too busy recreating the perfect ritual to reach the next level of their chosen mystery. The team-building’s mandatory, their boss told them. After a good, clean job, they were expected to do something together to ‘celebrate our success’ and ‘build morale.’ In this age of the open-floor plan offices and WeWorks, even the mafia took tips from Silicon Valley. Lenny, on the other hand, never knew that workplace social interactions could actually be cordial. This realization made working for a mafia much more complicated than her time at the Abbey.

‘Willy Wonka,’ as the Americans liked to call him, just had to kick the bucket in the Far East. With an ongoing power struggle to determine the next director, the Abbey had a small fortune in artifacts and talent poached. Poached might be exaggerating; Lenny went pretty willingly. The Scladio family offered everything a magus could want, including a very reasonable dental plan. Alas, after a few years of hard but productive work and free elective dental procedures later, ‘Barbarossa’ was assassinated, and a member of the family went rogue in the Holy Grail War Lenny helped contain. The fallout destroyed the Scladio family. Lenny, like any displaced worker, had to find a new job. Unwilling to sell any of her research to raise funds, she was one iOS software update away from applying for a side-hustle when she remembered the old magus adage, ‘All roads lead to the Clock Tower.’ With a heavy heart, teeth that had seen their final free cleaning for the next few years, and a bag filled with toads she re-applied as a researcher at Kishua After a lackluster interview, she was re-accepted and given the funds as well as laboratory space to continue her research. Like any proper, self-respecting magus, that’s what she did, keep her head down and continue cutting open her toads.

There was just one little itch in her mind. It had been there ever since that American shortlisted her as a Master candidate. Ever since she saw those satellite pictures of a battle that changed the landscape of a desert. Ever since she got in her car and didn’t stop driving away from Snowfield the moment the plague broke. Every time she cut into a new toad the itch would nudge her mind. Every time she extracted another toad brain, the itch would tap her on the shoulder. Every time she saw _that_ girl and _that_ boy walking through the corridors of the Clock Tower, it roared at her, scratch me, scratch me!

‘Kay, quick scratch.

I think I could do a better job. I think I could win a Holy Grail War.

How would she win?

Krast “Lenny” Wegner: Master of Assassin.

She liked that. She liked the sound of that very much. Looking at the records of previous Holy Grail Wars, it would seem that Saber was thought of as the most excellent class. But Lenny knew from experience as well as intuition that the best class was actually Assassin.

She even penned a memo to herself that read:

**The Case For Assassin by Krast Lenny Wegner –**

_It goes without saying that it is impossible to survive an ambush conducted via Presence Concealment unless a Servant is kept nearby at all times. However, ensuring that one’s Servant stays in visual contact for security presents another problem when one faces off against another Servant. The risk of becoming a part of the battle itself becomes higher than ever, and even Heroic Spirits would be placed at a crushing disadvantage if required to fight while covering for another. Even if one’s Servant was not directly killed in the initial encounter, if caught in a situation where their movements became bound, only defeat would remain in the end. Yet it is also foolish to keep one’s Servant at a distance. One can never discount the possibility of Assassin intervening and killing one of the Servants while they were entangled in battle. . . ._

By Lenny’s calculations, it was possible to win a Holy Grail War with an Assassin in just three days. In fact, she was feeding some snakes when she hypothesized that if Holy Grail War derivatives had taken the magecraft world by storm, it would herald in a ‘Golden Age of Assassin,’ as she coined it.

Lenny was a rational magus from a traditional magus family, but her time in the mafia had exposed her to a different world. A world where her might could be right, and others were wrong in their weakness. A world where the best theories weren’t the ones you came up in your lab but were tested on the field without fear of reprisal. Most importantly, working for the Scladio family had given her key information about the possibility of proving her Assassin hypothesis. With all that in mind —

Mary of July: “Assassin? Are you trying to hire an assassin? I’m sorry to tell you Miss Wegner that whatever the rumors may be, my family does not retain the services of assassins. If you were hoping to avail yourself with those types of services, wouldn’t it be better to hire a freelancer?”

Poppins of July: “You’re worried about assassins? Aren’t they a given in the Clock Tower? Wait. Oi! You couldn’t mean the Assassin class? Why would you be interested in…. Answer me honestly, there’s another one happening, isn’t there? Even after that girl closed the gate and that debacle in America. Hey! Stop running away! Ahhh, geez, stop or I’ll shoot!”

Idiotic Genius: “Assassins sure can be scary. That nice girl was real nice when we got to know her wasn’t she? I guess Assassins aren’t really that scary, after all. You might be in watch form right now, but you also have an Assassin form don’t you Jac — I mean, Berserker. Berserker? Hey, Berserker, why don’t you talk anymore?”

Big Ben London Star: “Don’t care. If you want to go die, try to do it without bothering me, please. If you want advice, my advice is ‘give up.’ This Holy Grail War has nothing to with the Clock Tower. The higher ups will send someone to save face. Annoying them would be more productive than interrupting me when I’m grading. Leave the door open for that snake lady on your way out, Miss Wegner. And hey. Hey! Don’t talk to my students about this, especially Flat, got it?”

Regardless of what those third rates said, even the strongest Servant (Assassin) was worthless without a working relationship. To obtain the best Servant with the best possible compatibility, Lenny stayed far away from using a catalyst during the summoning. While this meant her selection of Servants would only be one of nineteen Heroic Spirits, she was certain she would draw the best card.

*****

Salazar slithered up a mahogany table leg and hissed at Lenny. She smiled and took another sip of her Green Apple Cosmopolitan Martini, a drink she discovered in America that quickly transitioned from a guilty pleasure to her favorite drink. The bounded field around the school had just been completed. It would soundproof the area, repel anyone without mystic abilities, and obscure the magical energy sensing abilities of anyone inside. She had woven that last effect into the bounded field as discreetly as possible.

In truth, Lenny was shocked to find the fighting starting quite literally in her backyard. Had a spy found her location? That was impossible. She had been so careful, and Assassin had ensured her that they were untraceable. No one other than Lord Byron, the Clock Tower representative, would even know she was interested in this Grail War. After sending her failed snakes as familiars and Assassin for reconnaissance, it turned out to be an opening fight unconnected to herself. A fortuitous coincidence to test Assassin’s potency. Shame there was only one Master present. She would have liked to use one Master as an example and ally with the other, only to betray him later.

Either way, Assassin was positioned to claim the life of that homunculus in one attack. All Lenny needed was for Archer to forget about his Master for a moment. Considering the breakneck pace of the battle, she won’t have to wait long. Good riddance. Now her nightmares of a bull shaped cloud chasing after her would cease. With this stroke of dirked genius, she would be able to put all that in the past and move into a brighter future for herself as a magus as well as a person. Riding on the momentum of her good mood, she took another sip of her drink.

“Alexa, play ‘Toxic.’” The song choice feels fitting as she slipped into a trance to share Assassin’s senses.

Visha Kanya

That was the identity of the Assassin Lenny summoned. One of the nineteen Hassan-i-Sabbah, the poisonous flower who had changed her body until it was a poisoned blade that could divide countries with a single kiss. Lenny related. Gaining the girl’s trust had been so easy. All she wanted was to be touched, to have someone who could caress her poisonous skin and still warm the bed the next day.

_“Are the stones still functional, Assassin?”_ Lenny asked through their telepathic channel.

_“Yes, Master. Would you mind,”_ Assassin paused for a second, _“petting my head when I get home?”_

_“Don’t worry Assassin, I’ll do much more than that if you succeed tonight.”_

Lenny felt Assassin’s heart soaring through their line. There probably weren’t any awards for best compatibility between Master and Servant. If there were, Lenny knew she’d win.

Attached to Assassin’s belt was a series of stones. Extracted from the head of a toad king, these ‘toadstones’ were known as aphrodisiacs or potent antidotes in ages past. Science had another name for them, bufonite. According to archeologists, they were merely the teeth of Leopdotes, a type of extinct fish. But no scientist had ever magically created a snake with ears so that a toad king could develop, ride the snake, and absorb a multitude of its warty subjects before being euthanized so a magical stone could be extracted from its brain, have they now?

Toads have poison glands. To avoid poisoning themselves, they, obviously, must possess the antidote. That antidote was the toadstone in their head that continuously extracted the poison, growing in size as the toad grew older or as it secreted higher amounts of poison. This was Lenny’s brand of magecraft.

The Wegner family were poison collectors. They didn’t just collect your garden variety of animal venom and poisonous plants. They also dealt in magical and mythical varieties: Gu, Parysatis’ poison, Cantarella, a bit of hydra poison, Aqua Tofana, and their most prized possession was a drop of eitr. The toadstones, if correctly cultivated, were the perfect containers for all these poisons as well as Assassin’s. Not only had Lenny easily established a rapport with her Servant, but she had stockpiled a small treasury of potent Noble Phantasm-grade Mystic Codes.

The force of an attack broke through the bounded field Lenny erected. The aftershocks felt like a low scale earthquake that barely rocked the chair, but her body instinctively reeled in her mind.

_“Master!”_ She could feel Assassin’s worry through their line.

_“I’m fine,”_ The pain from having control of her bounded field taken away from her was something she experienced every day in the mafia no thanks to a certain. . . . _“Stay focused Assassin, it’s almost time to strike.”_

At that very moment, a tendril of electricity ran up her magic circuits. She telepathically called out to Assassin for confirmation, _“Another Master and Servant? No, they’re alone. Another Servant?”_

_“No, Master, just a girl. I can’t feel any magical energy from her. She’s a civilian.”_

The words rang through Lenny’s mind. It was someone unrelated to this war, someone unfortunate enough to have so little common sense they would disobey the bounded field’s suggestion. Perhaps she should have put up an illusion as well? There was no time to wonder how this could have been prevented. What a shame. If Lenny left her alone, the other two Servants would just dispose of the loose end. However, if Lenny made a gamble, she could easily turn this loose end into a secure knot of camaraderie and sportsmanship.

_“Assassin, prepare to kill the girl.”_

_“Master?”_

_“After you kill the girl, show the other two Servants you mean them no harm. You were just cleaning up. They’ll be suspicious of you but convince them you were just watching. It’ll be worth it if we can ally with one, especially that Archer.”_ Lenny looked down at three strokes on the back of her left hand, a feathered snake erupting from two toad lips. _“I’ll use a Command Spell if things get bad.”_

There were two ways to use a Command Spell. The first was to force your Servant into following an unwelcome command, like suicide. The second was to supplement your Servant’s abilities, such as ensuring they escape from a battle. By having maximized her relationship with the Servant, Lenny was certain she would never need to force Assassin to do anything. Secondly, Masters kept one stroke to protect themselves from their Servants. Lenny was confident that unlike other Masters in this war she would not need that final stroke for protection. In essence, she had an extra Command Spell.

_“Understood, in position to strike.”_

Lenny smiled and proceeded to sip her room temperature drink.

“Atta — ”

She didn’t finish the word because her voice was drowned out by what seemed to be the wall of her workshop exploding. Lenny reflexively turned her head towards the sound to find a hole in the wall the size of an orange.

Impossible, that’s impossible. There were layers upon layers of illusions and magecraft shields around this house. There is no way that someone could find, let alone attack this workshop without Lenny noticing. Determined, Lenny pushed herself out of her chair. She immediately fell to the ground. At least, the top half of her did. It may have been impossible but somehow, someone had broken through every layer of defense in this workshop and then Lenny’s own personal defenses with a single attack.

The light quickly faded from Lenny’s eyes. With this level of damage to her body even her magic crest couldn’t keep her alive. The familiars that were still alive desperately slithered into her cavity, attempting to use their bodies to replace her obliterated or missing organs. They wouldn’t make it in time. So this was what it meant to fight in the Holy Grail War.

How… intoxicating.

*****

“A successful operation, Doctor?” A questioning tone.

“It needs to be a little more sterile to call it an operation,” came a tart but exasperated reply.

The doctor pulled out a small booklet from her camo-vest and flips to the last page. At first glance it looked like a class registry to help a teacher memorize student faces. If you looked at each one of those faces, instead of youthful students, there was an assortment of crossed out, bored faces.

“The last Scladio family officer at large, ‘The Poison Princess,’” Lenny’s face was unceremoniously crossed out. “We would have never been able to touch her if she stayed under the protection of the Clock Tower. I guess these wars are good for something.” Although there is no way this could be called a ‘war,’ the doctor added underneath her breath.

The Servant absentmindedly swung her legs from the edge of the rooftop as the doctor put down her firearm next to a briefcase. Magically, the gun begins disassembling itself, shedding off layers of attachments that made it possible for precise long-range sniping like coats and sweaters. Soon, all that remained was a thermal scope and a handgun that fit itself in the holster on the doctor’s belt.

“And yourself? Are you enjoying the emptiness of a satisfied revenge?”

The doctor didn’t look at her Servant. “Wegner was not the reason why I joined this battle.”

The Servant raised an eyebrow at the empty black sky before offering a deep nod.

“We’re fighting because we want the same thing,” A doctor’s self-deprecating smile after delivering bad news to a patient filled her face. “Wasn’t overcoming death your dearest wish, Berserker?”

“A battleground is not a place where death is overcome, Doctor,” Berserker turns from where she sat and narrows her eyes at the doctor’s arm. “We must treat that when we—”

A pillar of light pierced the black of the sky, stopping her sentence short. The doctor, in fact, anyone participating in this magical war would instantly know what that light heralded. A miracle, a Ghost Liner was anchored onto this plane.

“Another one? But Rider was the seventh!” The doctor bit her gloved thumb, a habit from childhood she got from her sister. She turned to her own Servant for an explanation, but the ledge was already empty.

_“Come back, Berserker!”_ Panicked, she sent a telepathic message.

The only reply the doctor received is pure killing intent and, _“It reeks.”_

**~Interlude Out~**


	5. 4/ Seventeen’s Edge

**4/ Seventeen’s Edge**

I woke up this morning to my best friend giving my brother a handjob. The worst part was the look on their faces when I stumbled into the room while experiencing my first hangover. Before the terror and guilt of being found out, they had these ridiculous smiles on their faces. Not the polite smile you give to a convenience store cashier in an attempt to let them know you’re not that shitty customer who demands a refund for a blue Slurpee you already finished drinking because it wasn’t raspberry flavored and everyone knows that blue is universally raspberry, but actual smiles. The kind that dyes your face when you delusionally believe that somehow in this messed up, nauseating world you might actually be happy. Fuck those smiles.

And then you have the nerve to take me to The Habit after school to tell me that it was a mistake, a horrible drunk mistake that will never happen again. Hello, of course it was a mistake, but that doesn’t unscrew my brother. You’re my best friend for god’s sake. You of all people should know just how much I hate him. 

Then you tell me that I’m the one being unreasonable. I’m your best friend, I should be happy for you? Don’t you get it, Krista? I’m upset _because_ I’m your best friend. You’re better than that narcissistic momma’s boy. You just don’t see it right now because he’s the first high school boy who's ever been interested in you. 

You storm off. I finish my fries and order another bougie McChicken. It tastes like fried cardboard. Stare at me all you want, even you, probably homeless man next to the drink dispenser. I’m the girl who made her best friend run out of a comically Californian college town McDonalds substitute in tears. That’s right, lap it all up; who needs fucking Netflix when you got a front row seat to my life? I don’t want to see Krista again. I especially don’t want to see my brother. My mom’s out of town with a dentist. What’s the point of going back home? 

This downtown’s so small that wandering around is impossible. There’s always foot traffic no matter where you go and eventually, you’ll end up window shopping at the same store you were at two weeks ago. Which is why that night, I ended up at San Luis de Tolosa High School. Depressing, but it’s nowhere as depressing as this morning’s events. 

There’s some noise and light coming from the football field. It isn’t too strange, though. Might be a Monday but kids like to get drunk in the parking lot and throw their bottles into the stadium so the groundskeeper has something to do in the morning. He collects any unique bottle caps, displaying them on a wooden bottle cap map of the state he proudly hangs in his office. He said he might upgrade to a map of the entire country in a year. 

_— Alcohol paraphernalia in our local high school? That man should be fired at once._

_— Mom, come on, he’s chill. He stays late and helps us bring in the equipment after practice._

_— When you put it that way, men do need hobbies to keep them busy._

Of course, anyone’s irreproachable if they have the approval of her dearest, perfect, eldest son. 

Stop thinking about him. There should be some kids here to take your mind off him and Krista and this morning and those smiles. At least, I’ve heard this is a place where kids my age hang out. I’ve never actually been invited to anything like that, but whatever. It’s stupid, they’re stupid. 

_Whatcha’ doing here?_

_Nothing, just walking by._

_Hey. I’ve seen you around school, you’re a junior aren’t you?_

_So what?_

_Senior, senior, sophomore. Want a beer?_

_Sure._

_I’m XXXX. The one in the cap is XXXX and the one on top of the car is XXXX._

_Hi, I’m Nadine._

Breathe in. Exhale. Run that scenario again through your mind. You can do this. They’re just high school kids, like you. Like you. They will _like_ you. 

_— Nadine, I know it’s difficult for you, but isn’t it about time you got more friends?_

Isn’t that what your mom tells you every time you start a new grade in this stupid town?

 _— Krista’s an angel, but look how popular your brother is._

Oh mom, if you just knew how popular my brother was with your angelic Krista. 

There’s no one in the parking lot. In the three minutes it took for me to cross the road and enter the parking lot, all the lights have disappeared and there’s no longer any noise. The kids must have probably left the school. Yeah, I should leave school as well. I don’t even know why I was here in the first place. I’ve been wandering around town all afternoon and just ended up here. Didn’t the news say it was getting more dangerous in our county? Something about deaths at the men’s colony. There’s no reason to be at school this late, anyway. I mean, who goes to school in the middle of the night? I should go home, take a shower, and hit the hay. Mom’s probably back now. I’ll just turn around and start making my way home. 

Ho. . . me. 

Seriously though, how the fuck am I supposed to call that cold, excessive, hostile, empty house a home? 

A perfect brother who stole the only good thing in my life. 

A melodramatic mother whose idea of fun is a glass of wine and The Notebook. 

And worst of all XXXXX. So, I enter the football field. The stadium lights are too bright. Strange, they weren’t on when I entered. The turf is ripped and half of the bleachers are destroyed. But those are just details compared to the two blurs smashing into one another in the middle of the field.

It doesn’t matter if it defies all logic.

It doesn’t matter if it’s magical. 

It doesn’t matter if I’m going to die here. 

Because, well, have you ever felt like you weren’t really you? Instead, you’re looking down at yourself saying terrible things, awkwardly trying not to fail but everything that you do is so unbelievably cringe that you can’t help but hate what you see? And the scary thing. . . the thing I used to be so scared of was that this would never change. This feeling would never go away. I’m slightly relieved because now I know that it won’t. A knife is going to pierce my throat in the next second. So why is my last thought is

‘That’ll show them.’

No flashbacks, no scrolling film of everything that’s happened to me up to this point, just ‘that’ll show them.’ That’ll show the despondent writer who plotted my life. This must have been the moment she realized this movie would never have an audience — would never go viral. I don’t blame you for giving up on a defective character. 

That knife abruptly stops as my legs give way and I fall to the ground. I barely noticed it, but it seems the fall badly bruised the back of my hand. As for the assailant, even if she was wearing a bone-white skull mask, I could tell she didn’t see me. She was just looking at me because she happened to be facing my direction. All the strength in her body was already gone.

A strong gust of wind sends my untied hair into a knotted frenzy. The skull masked woman falls, blood leaking into the grass from three fist-sized holes. The blood sears the grass, instantly turning it grey. I scream. 

I woke up this morning to my best friend giving my brother a handjob. Before the day ended, she had chosen him over me, her best friend since first grade. Dad, why am I the one who is always forsaken? God, are You even up there? 

“I wish….” Hot, like that time Krista and I took turns trying to catch the fire from one of my mother’s scented relaxation candles. But that wasn’t painful like this. An unnatural breeze starts to blow as the corpse fades into flecks of blue. “I just wish I was someone who didn’t have to make a stupid wish.” 

Wishing is stupid. You wish for something because you’re either too dumb, ugly, or awkward to make it happen with your own two hands. That’s why, on this football field, in front of all these weirdos and my attempted murderer, I make a wish.

The breeze turns into a gale and traps those flecks of blue light in its eye. No one else in the field moves. The gale reaches fever-pitch and an incandescent light brighter than the ones installed in this football field blinds me for a moment. 

The heart in my chest skips a beat and then clamps down on itself. All the blood that was circulating through my arteries and veins drives to a halt, sending my body into shock. It’s a memory I’ve tried my hardest to repress using every year I lived as an additional weight. But, it’s happening to me, so it can’t be _that_ memory. Something tells me that I can’t forget this feeling. This feeling is where I began. So engrave it into your soul. Even though everything in this body may have stopped, there’s a molten flame that runs through my imaginary veins, flowing into that light which rapidly fades along with the burning sensation on the back of my hand.

The light fades as quickly as the wind, revealing a figure standing over my sprawled body. No one moves, nobody can breathe. In this moment, yesterday, this morning, this afternoon, no longer matters. There is nothing else in the world except for this figure and myself. With the moon overhead but the stars refusing to shine through the light pollution, some would call this scene sacred. Some would carve this very scene into their souls so they’ll never forget it even if they fall into hell. I reject that sentiment. 

“You don’t look like much of a fighter, dearie.” The woman’s raspy voice is caked with scorn. 

Polluted cerulean eyes, blond hair like straw that even the livestock won’t eat, and to top it all off is a ridiculous apron attempting to hide a slightly plump build that yearns for an athletic girlhood. That apron isn’t the type you see a fry cook wearing but the full ensemble of a cook from an absurdly genteel British period drama. This anachronism stands, bathed in both moon and stadium light. This moment is not special. Like any memory, it’s nothing more than a pebble that will erode in the river of time until even the dregs no longer appear in my dreams. My view of the world has not changed.

“I’ve always wanted to see California. Had some relatives go west during the gold rush, but this ain’t the place for idle chatter with all these hostile gentlemen about.” She looks warily at the figure in full armor and then the half-naked bodybuilder. 

“Come on, girl,” she snaps. “Seal the contract already. Yer the one who summoned me or not?” 

My mind is in shambles, but it’s still screaming at me to get out of here. To make matters worse something falls from the sky. Its landing rips apart the already sparse turf. She looks like a celebrity from an overproduced Korean music video. A pure, serene face contrasting a blood-red uniform. 

Without any emotion she raises a white gloved fist and charges. Her target, the woman in front of me seems to be nothing more than a sassy cook. The lady is goddamn military. The winner should have been obvious if not for the giant hammer which blocks the fist before it can connect with the cook’s face.

“Oh, so you were thinking the same thing as well.” The half-naked giant proclaims as he aims his bow at the military lady. 

The knight was standing at the forty-yard line with the giant. The next moment, he was right in front of us. I vaguely remember the world record for sprinting is something like twenty miles per hour. That’s about thirty feet a second. If that’s the case, that man casually broke the world record strapped in a tin can.

“Lady, would you please consider backing down? This girl is obviously unaware of her station. My Master wishes for me to take her to the overseer of the War.” 

“A plague should not be given the chance to spread.” The military lady puts more strength into her fist, blowing away the hammer.

“Cheh — And what might cause a genteel Lady such as yourself to fall to the level of a Berserker?”

The moment the knight is thrown off balance, the giant peppers the ‘Berserker’ with silver lights. Since they’re coming from a bow, they must be arrows with gunpowder or a grenade is attached to the head. I’ve pretended to do archery at every summer camp my mother forced me to attend. An arrow shot out of a bow does not explode on impact.

Dust fills the air. What’s even more incredible is that the lady brushes away the entire dust cloud in one motion. She’s only lightly wounded, the type of wounded you get when you fall off a bike for the first time. 

The giant dares her to continue her attack with a single stare. Instead the lady mumbles something, “Diagnosis. You diagnose the patient.” 

Incredibly specific words. Could it be that this ‘Berserker’ lady be a doctor? 

“You ask the patient about her symptoms or you run tests.” 

I look around, but there’s no one else talking back.

“There are times when the patient does not even know she is sick.” There’s no one around, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s trying to appeal to someone. Could she be trying to convince herself out loud? No wonder they’re calling her ‘Berserker.’

The lady then focuses her attention onto the cook in front of me, attempting to look through and then into her. Everyone freezes, except for the knight who corrects his stance. 

“She reeks of disease, but there are no observable abnormalities.” 

With everyone so intently observing the army lady, I steal a peek. Just glancing at the giant makes me want to vomit everything that didn’t go to my back fat. He’s so overwhelming that it’s hard to breathe. But then again, no matter the social situation, it’s always hard to breathe.

“There is not enough information to make a diagnosis.” 

As for the girl behind that giant. No one looks like that so she must be a professional cosplayer? Fake silver hair, red contact lenses, a dress that has too many parts to be functional or even possible beyond the catwalk. Most of all, her delicate face doesn’t even look human. My mom was going on about how these days South Korean was even better than Hollywood at plastic surgery. 

“We observe the patient.”

Berserker tightens her fist and looks away from the cook. 

“But, preemptive treatment may sometimes be beneficial depending on the family or health history of the patient.”

The cook in front of me hasn’t let her guard down. Honestly though, compared to everyone else on the field, it looks like she would be more useful chasing a talking rat from the kitchen than fighting. 

“But most of the time, preemptive treatments can be extremely detrimental to the patient, insofar as even causing disease. Creating a problem for the patient even when there was no health concern to begin with.”

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. I turn my head because I thought I might have heard something from underneath the bleachers, but it’s too dark, I don’t see a thing. 

“My apologies, Doctor. My apologies for the trouble I’ve caused here.” She curtsies wholeheartedly. It’s the type of curtsey you’re taught to do when you’re a little girl and about to go to an important fundraiser. “You as well, m’am,” she glares at the cook. 

“No harm, no foul. Mistakes are to be expected from one of your _kind_ ,” the cook spits out the last word like venom. 

With that, the Berserker lady abruptly disappears into the night. No one tries to stop her. The giant is the first to break the silence. “Knight, you intended to take the girl and her Servant to the overseer’s, correct?”

The knight nods. 

“A later date then,” the giant smiles at me. “Good luck, child, you’ll need it,” and also disappears. The woman that was by his side looks at me for a moment and promptly exits. That just leaves the cook, the knight, and myself. 

“What just happened?” 

The knight turns around to face me. Even with only a few of the stadium lights still intact, his profile is clear. There’s still boyish charisma in his eyes, even if he’s past his prime. It’s disgusting. I’m imagining what my brother would look like in thirty years or so years. A popular kid, a born leader, probably throws a tantrum because his mother won’t buy him creatine. 

“Apologies for not being able to explain. That is the overseer’s job.” He nods at the cook and then looks at me. “Have you ever ridden a horse before?” 

“The college gives rides during open house...?” 

He makes a face and then puts his fingers to his lips. A pure note rings into the night as an armored horse canters onto the destroyed football field from empty space.

“Don’t worry madam, I’ll protect her as if she were my own.”

The cook folds her arms. “Sweet words won’t charm me, sir. You know quite well as I who would win if we came to blows,” and disappears. Even though I can’t see her, I can sort of feel that she is still beside me. 

“Okay then girl, up you get.” He grabs me as delicately as he can, but it’s still rough enough that I wince. Before long, we’re both seated on the horse, trotting away from the school. 

I woke up this morning to my best friend giving my brother a handjob. Before the day was over someone died in front of me. Once again, I wasn’t able to do anything about it.

Call it destiny, call it fate, whatever it may be, this world hates Nadine Craig’s guts.


	6. 5/ Dilo (I)

**5/ Dilo (I)**

For the entire duration of the battle, I was cowering in a corner of the bleachers hoping that I wouldn’t be found. My hand was firmly in my school hoodie pocket, gripping a cross-shaped hilt. Even when the Rider started talking about visiting the overseer, I couldn’t introduce myself. There was no way that I was just going to walk out into that fray and announce that I was the overseer for the war. Especially after failing to help that girl. 

My fist lightly taps one of the metal supports in frustration. I’m the overseer, I’m supposed to make sure no one from this town gets hurt, yet — I know, a Servant attacked her. There is nothing I can do against a Servant. I know, that Servant was instantly defeated. But I... I could have done something. I should have done something. If I did do something then at least I could proudly say, all the evenings spent on the mountain behind the Mission weren’t wasted. That boy didn’t drown for nothing. . . . 

Oh well, self-pity isn’t going to get me anywhere. There’s better reception here, so I’ll call the city rangers and let them know about the mess on the football field and the mountain trail.

Strange, there’s no answer. I’ll call again. 

After the third tone, someone finally picks up, “Hello?” 

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Kars, it’s Chris from the Mission?”

“Shit, Chris, you know what time it is?”

“Sorry about that, but there’s been a battle. I’d like to request clean up. Plan Delta at Tolosa High and Plan Foxtrot at Cerro Huerta. I can drop you a pin for Huerta.” 

“Appreciate the info, but Chris, ummm, your mom hasn’t told you yet?” 

“Told me what?” She’s not my mother — a common mistake. 

“We’re off the war. All of us. Orders from above.” 

“Wait, that can’t be right. We were all at the meeting last week. Everything was ready and —” 

“Chris, sorry but according to the higher-ups, it’s not our problem anymore. We’re all in support roles.” 

“Who’s higher up than the mayor? Did they get a senator or something?” 

“It’s late, Chris. Talk to your mom; get some sleep. Thanks for being out there even if you didn’t have to. You’re a good kid.” Mr. Kars hangs up.

What did he mean by that? I’m the overseer, right? 

Oh, I need to make my way back to the Mission as fast as possible. I just remembered that the Rider said he was taking that new Master to see the overseer. It should be okay though; Cherry will know what to do until I get back. Right, now on which rooftop did I leave the pie? 

*****

Cherry gave me a hug when I arrived back at the Mission. She almost crushed the pie. I asked her if anyone had come looking for me, but she shook her head, motioning me to come into the kitchen. 

Turns out Father Kelsey was waiting for us. He wanted to say something, but Cherry insisted we have a slice of pie first. I would have liked to change first, but I dropped my bag onto the kitchen floor and prepared myself for a slice of hard-earned, cold, blueberry pie. To clarify, no, it wasn’t the old man’s birthday, Cherry wanted to get the pie to celebrate our final night before the War began. Tragic. 

“How’s the old man?” I ask Cherry, after saying grace. 

“Don’t worry. . . he’s the same as always,” she replies with a moderate accent. I don’t believe her when she says she had a good high school English teacher. 

Father Kelsey plunks two forkfuls of pie into his mouth and then coughs in his fist. 

“You okay, Father?” I pass him a napkin. 

He shakes his head, “Gucchi, but we really got to get on topic.” 

“I was surprised they started fighting so soon. When I got there the football field was torn up. Worst of all, when I called the emergency Parks and Rec number Mr. Kars said we weren’t in charge of moderating the war anymore. What’s up with that?” 

Father Kelsey looks at Cherry with his big, dark brown doe eyes. Fork in hand, Cherry grabs her elbow for a second and then places her fork onto her plate. 

“Chris. . . Bishop Dilo passed away yesterday.” 

Dilo, the priest visited me in the hospital when my parents died. 

Dilo, the — 

_— no matter who we are, we are merely. . . ._

I see, so after all these years he’s gone as well. 

“This came in the mail this morning.” Cherry hands me a letter with my name on it. “Open it when you’re ready. You were special to him,” she says softly. 

“Bishop Dilo was a great man. He worked his whole life for the Church, helping people. I only met him once, but I’m very sorry for your loss.” Father Kelsey offers some paltry words.

“I didn’t want to tell you until you came back from school. . .” With her brows creased, Cherry tries to lighten the mood with a crooked smile, “I didn’t think they would start fighting this early.” 

“It’s my fault that I didn’t take the clairvoyant book or the spirit board with me to school. I won’t make that mistake again.” 

Father Kelsey looks at Cherry again. 

“Yes, Father, is there something you want to tell me?” I ask. 

His eyes widen as the slight curl of his lip darkens his face. “Sorry lil’ dude, I wanted to tell you this in person.” He bites his dry, top lip. “The Church rang this morning. They told us we were no longer mediating this Holy Grail War.” 

No wonder Rider and that new Master haven’t arrived yet. 

“That doesn’t make sense, Father. I… We’ve all been preparing for this war ever since before this Mission took me in. The city has been collaborating with the Mission for years. Who’s going to replace us? Why would the Church take us off this project on such short notice?” 

“Because Bishop Dilo passed away yesterday.” His voice is pent and low. 

So that’s why the up and coming, handsome pastor of the Tolosa Mission is so worked up. His relationship with the Church is much more personal than Cherry’s or mine, to the point where he has convinced himself that he has unwavering faith in the institution we serve. And right now, he’s experiencing the worst of its nepotism and bureaucracy.

“Factional infighting,” comes Cherry’s distasteful, curt reply. “Dilo was more than popular. . . he was a legend. I had no idea until I started working for the Mission.” She nods at Father Kelsey and continues, “But he was too famous. His celebrity kept certain projects alive and alliances from dissolving. The moment he passed, those who disagreed with him made a grab for power.”

The Church abhors a vacuum. 

“This Mission is one of the first casualties. He fought so hard for us as well.” Father Kelsey’s face is all scrunched up. 

He did, did he?

“The new overseer and his team arrived this morning. The city and our Mission will be ‘duly compensated’ for all our trouble. Moving forward, sorry dude, you’re no longer the overseer for the Holy Grail War. . . .” 

I want to say “It can’t be helped,” or “That’s a load off my chest” and smile but I can’t. I’m not sure how I feel about old man Dilo. We only knew each other for a few weeks, but during that time he told me some entertaining stories I can’t remember, that a vampire killed my parents, and I will never be anything more than a human. For all that’s worth, I can’t help but remember the sad, guilty look he gave me as I said goodbye. As for my being replaced as overseer, it’s a role that I had no attachment to. It was just a job that I was given, something to do, like kitchen duty or squeegeeing the stained-glass windows. I’ll probably be doing a lot more of that stuff for the next two weeks now. Yup, that really freed up my schedule. I haven’t dropped by to see the boys in — 

“Who’s replacing me?” I don’t know why I asked that. 

Cherry looks at me mid-bite. She takes her time to swallow the last piece of pie on her plate, no doubt wondering if she should answer at all. 

“Assembly of the Eighth Sacrament, Sancraid Phahn.”


	7. 6/ TEMPorary LiAR

**6/ TEMPorary LiAR**

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask. “California Pizza Kitchen is closed.” 

The knight looks at me. “Pizza — that’s Italian, correct?” 

“Sure. There’s an actual Italian restaurant if you keep going down the road.”

“Little lady, I helped establish Italy. I don’t find myself too willing to walk all the way down this road to sample whether it was worth the effort.” Although it wasn’t a country back then, he added. 

“Good for you, dude but everything’s closed. It’s like midnight.”

“Good fortune our destination is not that establishment then.” He slides off the saddle and picks me up from the horse which abruptly disappears into the night. 

“Parking’s free this time of night.”

“You’ll cut your suitors with that sharp tongue, little lady.”

I could feel the cook silently agreeing with him. 

We cross the street from the California Pizza Kitchen with all its lights switched off to the Seventh-Day Adventist church next to the local Masonic Lodge. I’ve never been to this church, but then again my family isn’t religious. Not a problem though, like everyone else in this country we have relatives we only see once a year who are more than religious enough to make up for us. 

Without knocking, the knight opens the door and ushers me in. Behind the pews are four stained glass windows each with an icon: an ear of wheat, a flower I can’t make out, a dove, and a bible. There are a few more on the sides but the glare from the ceiling light is too strong. 

“No good faffin’ about in a house of God.” The cook appears out of nowhere and motions for me to sit down. She looks really at home in the front row of a church. I, on the other hand, can’t help but feel unnerved by the knight sitting behind us. 

The door next to the organ opens and out comes a tall priest in his pajamas, a solid black shirt that has a neckline that plunges below his chest, satin pants that yearn for a seventies revival, and a pair of faux alligator skin slippers. 

“Apologies, I happened to be dealing with the cleanup. You’ve had quite the night haven’t you, Nadine?” He smiled for a second as if he just remembered something hilarious, “May I call you, Nadine?” 

“Call me what you want but tell me how you know my name first.” 

He points to the knight. “That’s my Servant.” 

I don’t know what that means, but I do wish the lights were dimmer. His platinum blonde bowl cut is reflecting the glare right into my eyes. 

“You must be so confused right now. I’m so very sorry, Nadine. Let me start from the beginning.” He walks up to us and gestures at the seat beside my Servant. She looks at him warily, but I nod. I haven’t met many priests, but I can already tell he isn’t suited for the job. When you think of a priest you think of an old wrinkly, white dude who can only mumble; a creepy middle-aged dude you wouldn’t let near kids — bald spot optional; or a hot, young dude who includes a bible verse in all his Facebook gym posts. Yeah, he still mains Facebook. This motherfucker looks like he’s more of a Walmart greeter or a funeral director than a priest.

“Have you ever heard of the Holy Grail?”

“Monty Python?” 

“Yes, that cup. I am the steward of the Holy Grail that has manifested in this town.” 

“You’re telling me that you’re one of those cable tv miracle hunters and there’s a miracle in this town? Shouldn’t you be going to the Mission for that?” 

“Girl, you shouldn’t talk to a priest like that. Who knows what horrors will befall us?” The cook snaps at me as she crosses herself. 

“It’s quite alright, madam,” he reassures her. “No, Nadine, I’m not part of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. I belong to a different part of the Church who devote themselves to the Eighth Sacrament. We retrieve holy objects and return them to their rightful places. Like the Indiana Jones’ of the Church.” He laughs at his own joke. How unpleasant. “Some in the Church may conflate us with those barbaric Executors, but I assure you, we’re more like archeologists.” 

The knight behind us is whispering something under his breath as he prays. I glance at the cook beside me for a moment, before turning my full attention back to the priest. “They’re here because of the grail too, aren’t they?” 

“Yes, they’ve been summoned to do battle to obtain it.”

I nod, “So it’s not the ‘real’ grail, then.” 

The priest seems taken aback, “What makes you think that?” 

“Isn’t the Holy Grail actually supposed to be Jesus’s descendants? My mom was really into Tom Hanks for a few months.” 

I look around, the knight opens one eye, the cook looks at me with a blank expression on her face. Shit. Kill me now. Please. Why are you so dumb, Nadine. I’ll just stop talking. 

Amazingly, the priest happens to be nodding approvingly, “Hoh, it’s indeed true that there have been people in the past who have been called, ‘Holy Grail.’ But, the Holy Grail in this town does not refer to the bloodline of our Lord. Instead, it is based on the 726th Grail the Church has examined. Its peculiarity is calling upon Heroic Spirits. The people who call upon those heroes are known as Masters. They are branded with stigmata known as Command Spells which gives you three absolute commands over your Servant.” 

So that tin can’s a hero, is he? Not hard to believe. But her? Did this cook win a Nobel Peace Prize or something?

“There are Masters who summon these heroes, Servants. These Servants fight for the Holy Grail and the Church also wants the Holy Grail. I get why you sacrament guys would want it back, but why do these heroes fight for it?” 

“Because it can grant any wish, dearie,” the cook mutters. 

I look at the priest. He nods with his eyes closed.

My eyes feel hot, really hot. Hotter than the cramped family sedan that summer night. Hotter than the fries in my mouth. Hotter than Tom Jones on the radio. Hotter than the sharp, heart-stopping pain in my dad’s chest. Hotter than the burn of the seatbelt on my chest as the car hit that tree. Colder than my breath as I ran not for help but because I just. . . .

“My dad. Can it bring back my dad?” I finally manage to say it. 

There’s something warm on my back. Unlike Krista’s hand, it’s big and rough to the point of ew. But, I don’t hate this feeling.

“Probably not,” the priest says softly. “The complete resurrection of the dead is beyond even Magic. It’s common knowledge these days that the Holy Grail is merely a magical energy furnace that collects the souls of Heroic Spirits to tear a hole in the World. This hole does not directly connect to the root of all existence, contrary to popular belief. The winner must make their way through the entirety of the outside of the World if they wish to arrive at the root. However, they are not alone in this quest, for outside the world contains vast deposits of untapped mana. Enough to grant a wish as long as one understands the process necessary to accomplish it.” 

“‘Understand the process necessary to accomplish it?’ What good is something that can grant any wish, if it needs —” I close my eyes and swallow the hotness. “Never mind, forget it,” and push away the cook’s hand. 

“This is where you have to make your choice, Nadine. Other than you and myself, there are five other pairs of Masters and Servants. They all want the Holy Grail and they’re willing to kill for it.” 

I already know that. The woman who died in front of me was seriously about to drive that dagger into my chest. There was no need for him to say that. Giving those words life just forces me to confront that reality at this very moment, right in front of him. There are going to be twelve other people, including this priest, who will be trying to kill me like that woman. How am I supposed to react to that? 

“If you’re willing to kill for this Grail, why am I still alive?” 

His eyes darken, “The Masters of the Holy Grail War are magi. They don’t follow the rules and morals that society has laid down. To minimize damage and to make sure things do not get too out of hand, the Church acts as a mediator for this battle, handling information manipulation and protecting Masters who have surrendered. We’re neutral.” 

“It’s difficult to be neutral when you have a dog in the race,” I mutter while looking at the knight. “No offense, dude.” 

The knight scoffs.

“The intended overseer for this war was from a specific faction in the Church. Their leader recently died. A member went rogue and summoned a Servant. I’m an emergency appointee sent by the cardinal in charge of this Holy Grail War as damage control and to exterminate the rogue element. Other than completing those two objectives, I am a neutral party in this war.”

“So the Servant that the knight was fighting. . . .”

“Self-defense. He was merely an interloper. We seek nothing more than to be rid of the Servant that was illegitimately summoned. However, as I am sure you are aware, to defeat a Servant, one must use a Servant.”

“You said that Masters aren’t normal people. Why was I chosen as a Master then?” 

The priest looks at me and sighs, “You’re an anomaly among anomalies. The Grail chooses seven magi of a certain stature to summon seven Servants. I believe each of the Masters must have magic circuits, be of sufficient stature to summon a Servant, and have heretical tendencies. Of course, built into the system is a strong preference for those who created the Grail. If seven that fit such criteria cannot be found, then it takes those who meet most of those criteria. It seems you Nadine, have the potential to become a magus. It’s a rare mutation, but not so rare that it is unheard of.” 

“Seven Servants? I saw a Servant die right before my eyes. There are only six Servants left.”

“No, even if that Servant and her Master perished, there are seven Masters and seven Servants left. That’s why you’re an anomaly. Command Spells that return to the Grail on a Master’s death are redistributed if there are more Servants than Masters. Someone killed Assassin’s Master and there were six Masters and seven Servants remaining. You, according to the Grail, were the most qualified person to replace that Master and was subsequently given the rights afforded to a Master, a Command Spell, instead of the preliminary ‘mark of the chosen.’ Immediately after the Command Spell was branded, the Servant was dealt a fatal wound and began to disappear. I’m a member of the Church, not a magus so I don’t know the specifics, but my guess is that the body of the true Servant was used as a supply of magical energy and catalyst to summon the fake.”

“Me,” the cook interrupts. 

There’s a lot of words in there that I don’t understand, and it sounds ridiculous. I get it though. I think I get it. If the Servant that tried to kill me is a one then the cook is a zero. One plus zero equals one. Like always, my luck is beyond terrible. My family moved to a town where there’s a magical Hunger Games. To make matters worse, I wasn’t even chosen properly. I was literally a benchwarmer. Fuck this. Fuck this Walmart greeter of a priest. Fuck the Holy Grail. Fuck Krista. 

“The redistribution of Command Spells. The use of a Servant corpse as a catalyst for a forced summoning. Both these loopholes have occurred in previous Holy Grail Wars, but not simultaneously. That is why you’re an anomaly among anomalies. So, Nadine, what are you going to do?” 

Fuck me dead. 

I clasp my hands and look down. Even if this is a church, there’s no point in asking for anything. I’ve learned that much in my seventeen years on this earth. I’m scared. I’m up against monsters fighting to the death with just a cook as a partner. The choice is obviously to give up. Give up, go home, and go back to the life that I was living before. 

A laugh escapes all the way from my stomach. 

That’s rich, what life? That life ended the moment I opened my brother’s door this morning. There’s nothing waiting for me back there, just awkward appeals for me to be reasonable, think about someone else for once, and to be happy for her. I can’t be those things because I haven’t been those things for such a long, long time that I’ve forgotten how to be those things. 

I’m scared. I miss my dad. I want everything to be okay with Krista. I don’t want to fight. I want to give up. I… 

The priest’s eyes sparkle at my wrung hands. Probably just the light, but for an instant, he looked at me like I was some kind of small animal he was about to devour. 

“I’m impressed, Nadine,” he says slowly and deliberately. “You’re someone who has never been initiated to our side of the world, yet you’ve come to understand almost everything I’ve said with such acuity. I doubt there are many people your age who could deal with this situation with such calm and reason. It’s almost like you have eyes that see into the world.” 

“See into the world?” 

“It’s a rare ability even among magi. Have you ever felt like you can easily understand concepts that others can’t grasp?

I don’t know where he’s going but. . . all the time. I even correct teachers. 

“Do you regularly anticipate others actions?” 

Like preempting my mother every time she says something. 

“Have you ever felt different from everyone else, like everyone else is missing something that only you can see?”

Something that only I can see? 

I’m not special. I’ve known from a young age that there’s always someone better than you and therefore by extension me. People, they get so self-important and uptight about that. Sam, no one cares how ‘bomb’ those tacos are exclamation mark ecksdee. Everyone in this town has been to goddamn Taqueria Santa Cruz. The difference between the mouth-breathers who get four hundred likes for that post and those who get ten is confidence. Doesn’t matter if you pull it out of your ass, the sheeple won’t know the difference. No one is special. You just try convincing everyone else that you’re special until you’ve convinced yourself. It’s so dumb. People are so dumb. ‘Eyes that see into the world,’ sure, whatever. Whatever. 

I look the priest right in the eye. “I’ll do it. Just make sure you give me a participation trophy at the end. You know, to let me know that I’m a snowflake. That’s the joke, right, about this generation?” 

The priest smiles, “Do you mind me asking why you made that decision?” 

“The Servants are here because they want to be right? That means she has a wish she wants to be granted.” 

They both nod. 

“It’d be pretty shitty of me to call on her and then just ditch her.”

The priest claps his hands in delight. “Quite awe-inspiring. I’ve never heard anyone give that sort of reason as to why they’d join a magical battle royale before.”

Nonchalantly, he gets up and walks to the podium. 

“So, what’s your wish?” I ask the cook.

“To get my good name back,” she says abruptly, warily eyeing the priest. 

To clear her name…. Wait, I’ve haven’t even asked her name yet. 

“Is that an order, dearie?” Her terse answer. 

The priest coughs as he retrieves something from behind the podium. “You may be unaware Nadine of what your request truly entails. I’m sure you’ve heard of the legend of Achilles and his heel. To know a Servant’s name is to know their weakness. It’s unwise to reveal your Servant’s name.”

“What should I call you then?” 

The priest interrupts, “Usually the Servant is called by their class. In your case, it would be —” 

“Call me Mary.” The cook, or rather Mary, speaks over the mansplaining priest. “My Nanna in heaven would cry if she heard folks calling me that vile name instead of the one I was christened with.” 

Mary, Mary.

Quite contrary.

Like a piercing note from the church organ, the name seeps into the air of the church, persisting until it soaks into our grey matter. Even the priest stops whatever he is doing behind the podium and absentmindedly repeats the two syllables, branding it onto his tongue. It’s a common name for a common Servant of a common girl. I only know two historical Marys and one of them is hanging out with her kid on an altar behind the priest. 

“Milord,” Rider’s arms are spread across the back of the pew like he owns the entire church. “The little lady has given her answer. I think we can let them go now.” 

The priest bows in his direction. “I’m sure your parents worried about you; I’ll drive you home.” 

Ignore the plural. 

“You mind if I ask you something, first?” 

“You may ask, but I won’t necessarily answer. You are officially a Master and I am a neutral party in this affair,” he says offhandedly as he retrieves a priestly jacket to cover his pajama shirt. 

“The other people like me, Masters. What are they like?” 

An incredibly toothy smile, “The other five Masters… Due to the nature of this war, I don’t have information about most of them. One of them is a representative of the government. When the Grail was established seventy years ago, one condition for the use of this land was a guaranteed slot for one of their own. Another is Lord Byron Valueleta Iselma, a disgraced noble from the Magecraft Association.” He lists them off one by one. “The Dilo faction summoned an illegitimate Servant, but you shouldn’t worry about them — I will take care of them. And finally, there’s the Einzbern homunculus who participated in the battle in the school grounds.” 

Disregarding everything I didn’t understand, there are only four mentions. He must not be aware of one of the Masters.

“If you don’t have any other questions, we should get going.” Without waiting for a reply he starts walking outside of the church. 

I look over my shoulder to find Mary but she’s already disappeared. Only the knight is left sitting in the church. 

“You should probably follow the Father,” he urges me to hurry up. 

“You’re called Rider, right?” 

He plays with his facial hair. “My class, little lady, not my name.” 

“Well yeah, Rider, thanks for helping me tonight. Appreciate it, dude.” 

“You put too much stock in the regard of others. It might do your countenance well to smile.” 

“Don’t need advice from a third-place renaissance faire costume, thank you very much.”

Rider whistles in reply. Go ride yourself.

*****

The priest drives a Ford Escape. I asked him whether he had any kids. He told me that he was a priest. I asked him whether the Church was paying him enough. He said that he was not going to have college kids throwing up in the backseat of his car. I asked him why it was a Ford. He said that he didn’t trust Asian cars. Sure, they were cheap, worked hard, and you looked respectable driving them. But you had to realize the gears are shifty, the headlights are often or not too slanted, and more than anything the interior stinks. Couldn’t trust them, Asian cars.

I didn’t reply. 

By car, you can get anywhere in Tolosa from downtown in fifteen minutes. After riding in complete silence for the remaining eleven, we ended up at my front door.

“Thanks for the ride. You can go now.” 

“What sort of priest would I be if I let your parents worry about where you had been?” He crosses his arms. “I don’t think your parents trust your word either.” 

“Parent, I wanted to resurrect my dad, remember.” I ring the doorbell. 

“Ahhh,” he shakes his index finger knowingly like he innocently forgot to pick something up at the grocery store. “You did mention that before didn’t yo-” 

He’s cut short by my mother wrenching open the door and yelling at me before she cuts herself short as she realized that there’s another person with me. 

“Father Sancraid Phahn pleased to meet you.” He takes off his hat and offers his hand. Who on earth wears a hat after midnight? “I’m the acting priest at the Tolosa Seventh-Day Adventist Church.”

Less shocked than if I came home with an officer, “Church? What was she doing at a church? What were you doing at a church!” 

“I caught her rummaging through our clothing donations. She didn’t seem like she meant much harm so I told her if she helped with some of my work, I would let her have anything that she wanted.” He produces a pair of galaxy leggings, a denim jacket with a fluffy collar, and slightly frilly purple one piece out of what seems to be thin air. It’s scary how good of a liar he is. More than that, the clothes he chose are exactly what I would pick out of a church donation pile (thrift shops are so 2012). I almost want to believe that I was out for a night of donating bin diving. 

“What did you help him with?” She wants to believe it too. Stealing from a church, that’s definitely something my useless, delinquent Nadine would do.

I shrug, “Usual church stuff. Polish the candlesticks, make meals to deliver to the unfortunate, and some filing.”

“Until past midnight?!” She’s incredulous. 

“Sorry, Ms. Craig. After she had finished her work, a mug of hot chocolate seemed in order. It seemed Nadine wanted to confide in me. Being a teenager is tough especially for one who lost a father. I’m sure you're a great parent. It’s just that at this age teenagers, especially girls, need someone they can talk to. And what can I say, I make a great hot chocolate.” That smile is so fake that it’s going to stink up the house for days.

My mum looks at me. I uncomfortably smile, the kind I do when I want her to think that she’s got the better of me.

“Well thank you for bringing her home Father —” She falters, unable to recall his name. I don’t blame her, I don’t either.

“Not at all, Ms. Craig. Your daughter is quite rough around the edges, but there’s a pure soul underneath. You’ve done a good job raising her.”

My mom opens and closes her mouth a number of times before, “Thank you for getting her back safely.” 

“I wouldn’t be a very good shepherd if I left one of my flock out alone at this hour. May the Lord be with both of you.” 

Effortlessly, the priest overseeing the Holy Grail War lied to my mother then got into his Ford Escape and drove away into the night. The moment he’s out of earshot my mother asks, “Did he do anything funny to you?”

“Mom!” 

She looks taken aback and becomes defensive. “I had to ask. You can never know with priests these days. You’d know if you ever paid attention to the news.” 

“Mom,” Why is she always like this? “Whatever, I’m going to bed.” 

“Nadine. Is everything okay? I heard from your brother about Krista. That must be difficult for you.”

Oh, she went there, didn’t she? Well if you’re going to go there. 

“Yeah, it’s difficult, but my perfect brother has been stealing things from me since I was born, so I’m used to it,” I snap. “Especially when my own mother takes his side no matter what.” 

“Nadine,” she beings to get stern. 

“Hope that means you figured out why I turned to a priest before my own mother.” I storm up the stairs to my room. My mother’s repeatedly calling my name, so I slam the door. That should shut her up. I hope the bang wakes my brother up. He always gets hissy the next morning when he doesn’t get eight hours. I hope he never gets eight hours. 

“That wasn’t very nice, dearie.” 

“You’re not my mother, you’re my Servant.”

I throw myself into the bed still fully clothed. 

“I’m the Servant who’ll beat you senseless till you quit talking to me like that, girl. You don’t know the first thing about being a victim.”

The menace is palpable, gnawing at my ankles, trying to dig into my knees, but the pressure isn’t overwhelming. It’s like feeling the familiar buzz of your phone in your back pocket, but you’re unsure if it’s a DM or just a school email.

“Whatever, you’re dead. You’re already haunting me, so what’s the worst thing that you can do?” How very me to ignore the message anyway. After all, the only person who would DM me is fucking my brother now. 

That shuts her up. That shuts me up. But, sleep won’t come with a disgusted ghost in an apron sitting on your chair, surrounded by a sprawl of impulse Ebay purchases your former best friend told you would go great with the Christmas gift that she bought you.

“Yer a right bitch, you know that?”

I tug my solid blue comforter over my hoodie and jeans. I don’t feel any more comfortable. God, it’s only Monday, too. I saw a ghost die today and I’m still the same old sad, bad Nadine. Can’t we just flash forward to the next fight or whatever? 

“Yer a right bitch alright, but I wouldn’t have anyone less for a Master. ‘Cos you see, girl....” 

My hair, face, and pillow are wet. She must have poured a glass of water over me. How petty. I open my eyes. I see nothing but my pillow. I close my eyes and block everything out. 

“At least react will ya?” 

I close my eyes and block everything else out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1 – End


	8. 7/ AntUmbra

**7/ AntUmbra**

“So, a Cuban?” 

“Wasabi mayo instead of mustard, please.” 

“Do you want anything else with that?” 

“No, that’ll be all Hibiki, thanks,” I smile. 

I turn to the window opposite of the waitress. In the place of a sheet of glass is white as far as the world will allow. Nothing but a blank canvas of bleached sand. Nothing moves, nothing dies, everything just empties itself into the sand. 

“What about some prune juice, freshly squeezed?”

I don’t think you should be selling prune juice in a German cafe. A cafe only getting by because of its regulars isn’t winning any points by shaking up its menu. And do something about the decor as well. It’s as dim as that bar where the toilets don’t have doors, the one with that really pretentious name, The Library, that’s it. Twenty-one isn’t an age, I was told, it’s a state of mind. Okay, but how are we going to get in? My brother knows the bouncer, I was told, it’ll be a cinch. That’s not going to — well, let’s give it a go. That’s the spirit! Nothing ventured, nothing gained right, Chris? 

“Hey, Hibiki, do scriptures dream of lamb?”

“No way, I dream about Chika.”

“Doesn’t that mean you’re broken? I feel like a scripture should be dreaming about lamb.” 

“A scripture doesn’t know that it’s incoherent. All it can do is read and praise itself. In fact, it makes perfect sense to itself. The words mean the words mean the words. It doesn’t need to mean anything else to anyone else, you know. It’s only when that script tries to explain itself to a human that it realizes it’s incoherent.”

“Incoherent? Don’t you mean broken?” 

“Incoherent because when something can be read five hundred different ways by five hundred different people, what’s a scripture to do?” 

“Stop dreaming of lamb and dream of Chika instead?” 

“Bing-bong,” she makes a bingo sound effect. 

From the corner of my eye, I see a thin shadow brushing the glass fixed into the front door.

“Scratch the Cuban. Dilo’s waiting for me outside.” 

The door opens itself and I start walking up. The mountain underneath my feet is too supple to be one I’ve climbed before. All of the Sisters are usually dry and compacted. Walking on sunshine, the always good-natured guide will tell you, locals never hike after a rainy day. Too loose, too muddy. Rather than sunshine, it’s like I’m climbing up a mountain of flesh. 

The most touristy thing to do in this town is to climb three of the Sisters and then get a tri-tip sandwich at the local inn for lunch. It’s touristy because it’s doable and considered an accomplishment you can post on the internet. No matter your age, you’ll post a picture on Facebook because no one does it alone and every group has at least one person who brought a selfie-stick. Tag yourself, the post will say. 

Hiking is the lifeblood of this town; it’s what people do on the weekends. Always going up, always aiming higher; I wonder what’s on the other side? Eventually the mysterious becomes nothing more than a weekend habit. People hike in this town because it’s something to do. People hike in this town because there’s nothing else to do. To do. To do. To do. Desperately seeking something to do. Aimlessly wanting something to do. The natural conclusion? People hike in this town because it’s what people in this town do. 

How mechanically beautiful. 

But people shouldn’t be this way, the mountain matter-of-factly blubbers. People should want more than this; people should feel more than this. You, of all, shouldn’t accept this for, ’lo and behold the flame this despondent mediocrity kindled. 

A hole opens up and I transition into a disembodied form as I fall. The fire in the center bubbles up like a tidal wave of roe you get in the supermarket that’s advertised as caviar. A velvet coat that doesn’t pop no matter how many layers are pressed together dress me, giving me a form. I gasp, hoping for something to fill my lungs. But it doesn’t make sense to try to breathe. I don’t have lungs. The moment I stop trying, something comes from the heart of the mountain. Nothing more than a smidge of darkness, electrified by the atmosphere and the grudges that call this place home.

It doesn’t look at me. 

I don’t look at it. 

“You’re disgusting.” 

The fiery bubbles surge, whipping themselves into a whirlpool that emanates nothing but… nothing but… 

“Sorry.” In two syllables, I fail to reject it. 

And one by one the bubbles begin to pop.

*****

By the time I flush the toilet, I have to admit the new overseer is doing a good job. Follow up is important. When Cherry told me that the Mission was no longer in charge of mediating the Holy Grail War, I was worried about whether these new operatives, with such limited time, could deal with the intricacies of managing information within this town. So rather than running the daily quests on the mobile game I play, messaging Kayla about where we should eat lunch today, or watching that recommended Youtube video which was clearly clickbait, I read the local headlines.

Apparently, someone broke into the Tolosa High football field yesterday and did a few doughnuts. A portion of the Cerro Huerta trail was being sectioned off due to a new city Natural Resources department report detailing possible high-risk fire hazards in Open Spaces in light of the Governor's proclamation of the ‘new normal.’ There was also an investigative piece about a spike of inmate deaths in the men’s colony close by. These are pretty good stories. I was certain they’d go for the tried and true ‘gas leak’ cover story that was part of Protocol #650. 

I put my electric toothbrush back into its charger and try to floss my back teeth. Wait, I forgot to wipe the toothbrush clean with a square of toilet paper. Enough hard water scum leads to a brown crust. The Oral-B toothbrush manual always recommends drying it after brushing. As for flossing, I can never truly get my back teeth but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Wet my hands, two pumps of hand soap, twenty seconds of scrubbing remembering to pay special attention to the inside of the nails, and then twenty seconds in hot water, dry on my towel. I don’t remember what I was dreaming about this morning, but it can’t have been too important — just like the letter on my desk that I haven’t opened. 

*****

Cherry is peculiar about fixing breakfast. It might be part of some ritual that she can’t let go of, but she won’t let anyone else make breakfast. There’s nothing to complain about taste-wise, though some kids at school thought it was hilarious that the first time I had frosted flakes were from a ziplock bag during P.E. 

I spoon my fried egg (sunny side up) onto my toast and start eating. The school is just down the road from the Mission. I can usually make it with five minutes or so to spare. 

“You’re late, as usual,” Father Kelsey on the other hand, walks in with nothing but a tank top and boxer briefs. 

He yawns, stretches, and then looks in the pan. There’s an egg left in the skillet for him. 

“You’re right on time, as usual,” he replies. 

You want to bells rung on time, right?

He absentmindedly poses in front of the toaster while waiting for it to pop. How many followers could I get if I started a ‘hot priest around the house’ account? Unfiltered pictures of a half-naked, muscular, handsome, young, Filipino priest absentmindedly smoldering into the distance while bathed in the early morning sun might start raking in enough ad revenue for a new phone. Church technology might be the best in the world, but its social media presence definitely needs work. 

“What about Cherry?” he breaks my train of thought. 

“Early, as usual.”

He nods and the toaster goes off. As usual. Just like every other day for the past few years. Sure, things have changed a little, but even with this Holy Grail War going on, I can’t help but feel unaffected 

“There’s a piece of pie left.” Father Kelsey says after he gets the milk from the fridge. 

“That’s for the old man. I’ll go up to his room after I’m finished.”

Everyone does their own dishes in this household. We tried doing it how Cherry wanted us to do it — a weekly rotation. Spectacular failure. There are probably fifteen pages dedicated to that incident in her diary. 

“Father, have you heard anything from the Holy See?” 

“Nah, not yet.” He catches himself mid-automatic answer. He twists his mouth, his gaze gripping onto my face. “Dude,”

I raise an eyebrow. 

“Just enjoy yourself, ‘kay.” 

I get up to retrieve the piece of pie. 

*****

“Pie for breakfast? You’re spoiling this old man,” The pie’s cold, yet the moment I enter the room, the old man somehow already knows. 

Karabo Frampton, a retired Executor, ‘officially’ my foster father, as well as my teacher. From reading Church battlefield reports and witness testimonies, you couldn’t believe he was a sickly, gentle old man. That disconnect between who he was and who he is now is the reason why I call him old man. Karabo is someone else. 

“Blueberry from Ahnenerbe.” I hand his dark, wizened hands the fork and the plate.

“Did you happen to see somebody ordering curry?” He croaks. 

I shake my head. Seriously, old man, celebrities like that don’t go to small German cafes on the Central Coast.

“Shame,” he replies before saying grace and taking a bite. I sit back and let him enjoy one of the only things he still can. His health started deteriorating a year or two after we settled into the Mission. No one other than the old man himself knew what was wrong. Doctors were useless so they never came. There was no medication that could help him, either. So, he just sits here — a panther that lost his fangs, waiting to stop functioning. 

“Is there something you want to ask?” He turns to face me with his bottom lip purple from the filing. 

I wipe his mouth with a paper towel. The old man’s blind. Lost… or rather sold his eyes. 

“Cherry already told you, didn’t she? I’m no longer the overseer.” 

The crumbs on the plate I take from him look like mountains of crusty froth. There isn’t much space on the bedside table so I end up putting it on top of a faded leatherbound book. 

“That’s my bible, Chris.”

I end up putting the plate on the ground. 

“You’re no longer the overseer. How do you feel about that?” 

I’m happy. This is what happy feels like. Overseeing the Holy Grail War was your job. But since you got sick, it fell into my hands. In terms of a resume builder though, it would definitely be something more noteworthy than building a mission in Georgia, exterminating an outbreak of Dead on an island in south-east Asia, or investigating a head-hunting magus in London. On the other hand, this is the town that adopted me. It’s selfish but somehow, I feel like I should deserve to be the one making sure nothing bad happens here. At least that’s what I think he would have wanted.

“Eh,” I grunt.

“Do you want to use your words, boy?” There’s half a growl in that croak. 

“You’ve fought a Servant before.”

“You know the story. I didn’t do it alone and I almost died.” 

Pandemonium on the Rail Zeppelin. A usurping heartless posturing as a crafted tree. Beheading incident beyond the past and future within the magical, locked room . Reverse grail within a snow brushed forest, apostolating death. Mystic Eyes of ~~Death Perception~~ Transience — two jewels that affirm the past. Two forsaken retainers of the king, one who died as fake, the other ordered to live. Heterochromia, the body halts. The brain sizzles; the sternum erupts. Lo’ gaze upon the Wheel of the Demonic Heaven. Remain steadfast, for within that spear is a prayer made of Thirteen Decisions that unseals the light at the end of the world. 

_— All of us, no matter who we are, are merely. . . foam._

I shake some thoughts out of my head. “Yeah, sorry. I used to love hearing that story, didn’t I?” 

“And I loved telling it,” he gently smiles. “We both know you’re not afraid of having to intervene in a battle of Servants.” 

When he says that, I can’t help but find my hand in a fist. That’s not right. Yesterday, underneath the bleachers, I was too scared to do anything. He might be my old man, but he doesn’t know everything about me. I think this just goes to prove it. 

“My job is to fight vampires, not to oversee magi squabbles,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not the type to follow blindly.” 

“You’re not a lot of things. But I thought you were at least **that** type of person.”

“The pie was good wasn’t it?” 

“We’re talking about overseeing the Grail War.” 

I look down. 

“What should I do?” 

“Why are you asking a dying old man?” 

“Dilo. . . passed away.”

“He was a good man, Bishop Dilo.” 

“Everyone keeps saying that. Was he really?” 

“No, probably not all the time. But I believe I taught you to respect the dead.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t say sorry unless you mean it.” 

I stop talking and just raise my hand to catch the fork the old man throws at my eye with my index finger and thumb. For a dying old man, he can still throw a fork harder and faster than almost any baseball pitcher alive. Left alone, it would have dug deep enough to sever all the nerves in my eye and then pierce my brain. 

“Go and have fun at school, Chris. You’ll figure out what you need to do.” 

Having lost once again to the old man, there’s nothing left for me to do but head back to the kitchen with a heavy heart and an empty plate.


	9. 8/ Day Buy Day

**8/ Day Buy Day**

“Whatcha doing outside Rite-Aid, big guy?” 

“My Master presented me with a labor,” he says, holding up a packet of Eneloop batteries. “It seems my reputation in this era is as esteemed as the Grail would have me believe. What of you, child? Are not children of this era herded into safe learning spaces during the day? Did your tutor assign you a practical?”

*****

Let me explain. After suffering my mother agonizing about how she had to drive me to school now that Krista and I were no longer talking not to mention I didn’t even ask her how her weekend was (Horrible, can you believe he was trying to have an affair?) while my sleep-deprived body was aching, I decided that school wasn’t the right place for me. Mary hasn’t seen the town yet; what sort of ‘Master’ would I be if I had her come to school with me instead of escorting her through a twenty-first-century city?

“Don’t tell anyone that you’re from New York. All you’ll get is ‘West coast, best coast.’” 

Merely an hour after rush hour and the bus is already empty. We sit right behind the disabled seating.

“Tolosa’s a real bike and car town, so the bus system’s a bit confusing.” I point to the yellowing map stuck to the wall of the driver’s compartment. “It’s a lot simpler on Google Maps. Basically, Tolosa’s a triangle.” 

“You sure know a lot about the local transportation system for a girl who still has her mother drive her to school,” Mary sounds suspicious. 

Any girl who’s ever planned to run away from this dead-end town can tell you this much. 

“After you ride the bus once, it just kind of clicks.” Yes, I’m talking to the empty seat beside me. No, I’m not crazy Ms. Bus Driver, please stop pretending to ignore me while also sneaking glances at me in the mirror. Mary explained that she had two ‘modes,’ a corporeal form and an incorporeal ghost form. Even as a ghost she is still able to verbally communicate with me. 

The first thing I asked was whether all ghosts were like her. No, apparently Servants are special. Can anyone become a ghost, then? As long as something remembers you, you can’t stop being a ghost, dearie. That doesn’t answer the question, Mary. Does it matter if it answers the question if it answers the one you were too ascared to ask?

Whatever, this is our stop. We get off. 

“We’re at the northern tip of town, the college campus. This is the first of two major bus stops in town.” I point to the cement step pyramid across the road. “That’s the college library and further down this road are some food trucks in front of the main buildings. Atop the hill behind us is student housing.”

“Are all these wee ladies studying at this institution?” A materialized Mary lowers her eyes at the giggle (coined and minted) of young, blond girls in tank tops and denim shorts walking to the campus market. 

“Huh? Yeah, what about them?” 

“At first I was mighty impressed, but they look more like strumpets than scholars.”

“That’s a Californian winter for you. May as well be a New York summer.”

“That’s no excuse Nadine, no excuse, at all.” 

Whatever grandma, this is our stop. We get off.

“This is the south-western tip. If you’re here, you’re either shopping or a rich old dude telling your wife you got a business meeting and playing golf instead.” 

The sun bears down on the grotesque paved parking lot behind us. Everything and anything you need in one location, from brownie brittle that’ll cost your ‘whole paycheck’ (hahahaha, so hilarious, I haven’t heard that one from every single person over thirty) to a new squeaky bone for the emotional support puppy your mom won’t get you because ‘I’m the one who's going to end up looking after it and I don’t have the time for that,’ from sustainable artisanal craft IPAs you find your brother always eyeing to chartreuse fencing your mom claims is the devil, and hell if you want fresh cream cheese wontons and orange chicken in the middle of a sleepover because your mom still calls it a sleepover when Krista stays the night. . . sorry we close at ten. Everything in this town closes at ten. 

“I didn’t know California was this hilly.” Mary squints as she uses her hand as a visor. “Nothing like where I grew up….”

“Don’t know what that Sister’s called, but kids from school always talk about hanging out there after getting hot dogs from Costco.” It’s time to give her the ‘talk’, “There’s only one thing this town’s known for: the hiking culture. There’s a series of seven volcanic plugs around this town. They’re known as the Seven Sisters.” 

It’s the same speech every local gives to any visitor. If you live in this town, you’ll have heard it so many times that no matter the location, no matter the person, no matter the situation, you’ll be able to recite it perfectly. It’s the only thing in this town worth reciting. 

Mary’s crossing herself? I’ll ask her if she’s religious. Well, if you really were no more religious than anyone else while alive, I don’t think you would be crossing yourself at the mention of a few volcanic plugs. Don’t call them hills, the people who live here are really particular about that. Volcanic plugs, that’s what they’re called. Well, you’re Scottish, aren’t you? You call me dearie, a lot. Your accent sounds like the ones from that time-traveling period drama my mom forced me to watch with her. Wearing kilts, playing bagpipes, and eating haggis; I know those are just stereotypes though. Are there really any differences between Scots and the Irish? Wooden spoon up my —? We should stop by the Mission then if you’re Catholic. Either way, let's find a place to eat. What? Servants don’t need to eat? Whatever, I’m hangry so we’re going to skip this stop. 

“The south-eastern tip is the only airport between Monterey and Santa Barbara. Mostly, people use it to get to SFO or LAX when they can’t be bothered to drive. Other than that, there’s the gym my mom goes to that’s pretty much a cult.” 

We get off at Taco Bell instead.

“If you’re not going to eat, at least have some of my drink.”

Mary looks at the neon liquid. 

“Baja Blast. Krista prefers the spiked lemonade.” 

Mary takes a sip without touching the cup with her hands, shudders, and then takes another sip. “How colorful. This a twenty-first-century beverage. Makes for a cracker of a drink.” 

“Artificial colors, flavors, preservatives. Probably filled with a lot of ingredients that you can’t pronounce. There are a lot of people going Paleo these days. Umm, that’s like eating the food cave people ate.” 

“Oh dear, how could any poor soul deliberately eat the diet of savages by choice when these foods of the future are created with the power of science to offer the best nutrition and taste possible?” Mary nods to herself approvingly. She seems really passionate about this topic. 

“America is one of the fattest countries now because of that ‘science.’” 

“Better than the days when your tea was tubercular beef and a slice of bread cut with sawdust.” 

“You cooked a lot, Mary?” 

“I _was_ a cook, dead-on too.” 

“You should cook for me. Whatever it is, must be better than whatever my mom microwaves.” 

Not an exaggeration to say my sense of taste left with my dad. 

“Maybe after the war is finished, dearie.” She looks at her hands in her lap. “These hands shouldn’t cook anything, at least not right now.” 

“You said you wanted the Grail to clear your name. Is that so you can cook again?” 

“God willing, I hope to never do that again,” she says, taking another sip of my drink. She didn’t even notice my frown. 

“Do you know who framed you?”

“They called me hideous names too,” she doesn’t hear me. 

Let’s see, Neigh-dine, literally AIDs, clit sucker, Darien’s fuck-up of a sister, Krista’s weird friend. We really should compare lists some time, Mary. 

She finishes with, “Newspapers can be so cruel.” 

At least you got the views. 

There aren’t many people at Taco Bell after the lunch rush on Tuesdays. The cashier looked slightly worried at the sight of a middle-aged lady in an apron but he’s seen people in weirder outfits trying to buy tacos while full-on baked. That’s part of the job description for a college town Taco Bell.

“What about you Nadine. Your father. . .” she leaves my dad hanging. 

“Heart attack. We were getting burgers too. Last night at the church that was. . .” I shrug. “It’s been tough without him. But you heard what the priest said, even the Holy Grail can’t resurrect someone. Anyway, I’ve watched enough movies to know how terrible that idea is.” 

She begs me to continue. 

“Like they end up a zombie, lose all their memories, or what’s actually resurrected is a demon and that starts haunting the house. It’s the same thing when people wish to change the past. I would really like my dad to come back but. . . he’s not coming back. I know that.” 

“How admirably pragmatic of you, dearie. Then do you have a different wish?” 

“Dreams are nice, Mary but last night a half-naked bodybuilder killed a skull mask-wearing ninja? who was trying to kill me. A crazy military lady attacked us and she was stopped by a knight with a Thor hammer. You’re a cook. What are we going to do, cook them a nice meal?” 

Oh, I forgot about the not-cooking thing. 

“You should have thought about that before you agreed to be my Master, dearie. Especially when you don’t have a wish.” She looks at me intensely, “There are far more innocent and productive hobbies than watching ghosts faffin’ about.” 

I finish my tacos. 

“What I’m trying to say, Nadine, thank you for being my Master.” 

I finish my drink. 

Why am I still hungry?

*****

I got a chicken pita for six-fifty at the deli across from the bowl cut priest’s church. I stayed far away from California Pizza Kitchen because I did not want to run into a certain knight. Anyway, the deli’s right next to the park behind the old folk’s home. Krista and I used to come here whenever we were close by. I like old people. By that age, people have realized they’re too old to put on a facade, so the only option left to them is to genuinely enjoy what they’re doing, no matter how boring it might be. There is nothing to worry about because there isn’t any time to worry, leaving everyone with a blissful expression glazed onto their faces. I really like old people. When I met Krista in first grade, she was wearing an oversized, patched up, flannel winter jacket just like the old man sitting a few seats away.

We make eye contact for a moment and I can’t help but. . . Oh, after straining my eyes a bit, I realized that’s Laurent. We’ve talked a few times. If I recall, his daughter is working as an investment banker somewhere on the East Coast and when his wife passed away, he decided it was time to actually make some friends. I was about to go over and say ‘hi,’ but Mary’s back from checking the retirement home facilities. That was quick. I check my phone, wow, twenty minutes have already passed? When I asked her how they looked, she just shrugged and said a word or two that I didn’t understand. That’s the Irish for you.

*****

As the day wore itself into the afternoon, we found ourselves outside Rite-Aid. Mary asked me where to find some peach ice-cream. I’m not made of money and Rite-Aid’s just a few streets away from the school. There’s always foot traffic here, whether it’s from shoppers or people just leaving their cars here because no one checks the parking. It’s the last place you would expect to find the half-naked bodybuilder from last night, sitting back against the brick wall with a portable DVD player in hand.

His massive head deftly flicks up as we approach. Can he sense our presence? 

Oh god, I need to get out of here. 

I don’t think I can breathe anymore. I’m opening my mouth and I feel there’s something cold in my throat, but nothing’s reaching my lungs. My brain is using every single molecule of oxygen to scream at me, run away. If I continue to face whatever is in front of me, everything will break. Will break? 

Brain, isn’t that pretty laughable? Just take it all in. That’s right, you stupid bitch, take it all in and reject it. 

“Getting ice-cream,” I point to the store’s doors as I stiffly enter before making a beeline for the ice-cream counter. I don’t know what Mary expected when she asked for peach ice-cream — there’s peach flavored ice-cream. Whatever, good enough, foods of science or whatever she said right? 

I order three cups of peach-flavored ice-cream from a Thrifty cashier who somehow doesn’t realize there’s a giant outside the store. When I come back out, Mary has already materialized, so I offer her a cup and a spoon. She looks cautiously at the extra ice cream. 

“You’re a Servant too, right, big guy? An ancient hero who’s never had Rite-Aid ice-cream?” I offer him the paper cup, “Now we’re even for last night.” 

By the time I finished the short story, we’ve already finished our ice-cream. 

“Taking the time to escort your Servant around the city. That’s admirable, child. I like you.” He says with ice-cream covering his dark lips. The plastic spoon snapped between his fingers, so he took the scoop as a shot. “We haven’t been formally introduced, Assa —” He stops mid-sentence. 

Mary’s on the verge of erupting. Her face is so scrunched up that it’s hard to tell where one feature ends and the next one begins. It’s probably time for me to step in and help this bodybuilder in a muscle tank with cutoffs the size of his oversize boardshorts.

“Her name’s Mary.” 

That inhuman, chiseled face slackens before slightly furrowing to becoming more intense. “You have quite the mettle to refuse being hailed as your class, Mary.” 

People have names. They want to be called those names. But Servants are ghosts of celebrities. With just a name and a location, you can pretty much find any person on Facebook. With famous people, Wikipedia will give you major details of their lives, including how they died. But… I think I understand why Mary doesn’t give a shit about all that. From the way she carries herself and gets fussy over the most insignificant things, I think, for her, her good name might be worth more than this second life. Stupid as that might sound, I don’t think it’s something I should make light of to her face. Instead, I ask what a class is. 

The giant begins explaining the birds and bees: the differences between Heroic Spirits and Servants as well as where they come from. Mary interjects at times, but I think that this giant comically dressed like a tool of a frat boy heading to the gym knows more than she does about this topic. For whatever reason, he seems like he’s so steeped in the magical that he believes whatever bullshit he’s spouting. They exchange combinations of words that don’t belong next to each other like boundary recording band, saint graphs, and ring of deterrence. There’s no point taking out my phone. I’m not sure any of these terms would show up in a Google search. 

“So then to become a Heroic Spirit not only do you need to be a celebrity but you need to have done something impossible. But like, it’s pretty much impossible to do anything that is impossible these days because of how shitty we are. If err someone from modern times was to be a Servant they would like be someone who contracted with a deterrent — a counter force? You seriously saying Mother Teresa wouldn’t like qualify?” 

“Verily,” the giant adamantly nods. 

“Isn’t there that strange man in the strange suit who recently arrived on the Throne?” Mary interjects. 

“An exception that only proves the rule.” 

“You’re saying, I could have summoned Neil Armstrong?”

“Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Caster, Assassin, Berserker. No repeats.” The giant lists them off with his salami-sized fingers. “Those seven are the basic lineup for a Holy Grail War.”

“Extra classes exist, though,” Mary interjects. 

“Those names sound terrible.” My retorts never miss a beat. “Who came up with them?” 

Both Servants shrug, but the big guy tries to offer an answer as well. “We are conferred scarce information about the classes themselves, but Heroic Spirits are not meant to be summoned as Servants. Simultaneously, with the blessing of the Grail and as Heroic Spirits already exist, the emanation, a Servant, is a more convenient construction than a familiar on the level of a Servant. These vessels known as classes can’t be something a magus arbitrarily named. They must have their foundation in some undisclosed natural law.” 

If the knight who summoned a horse out of thin air was called Rider and the military lady who attacked us out of nowhere was called Berserker, then this giant here who pulled out a bow must be Archer. 

“You call these Servants emanations of the Heroic Spirit. Why not just summon the Heroic Spirit if that’s the case?” 

Mary takes this one. “Heroic Spirits aren’t just people. We’re records, a long strip of film known as an entire life. At times, there are certain legends which attach onto that film warping it, lengthening it, or even gilding it.”

I think I understand this part. It’s like if I revived my dad, I would choose the him the day before he died. That version of my dad would still have a very high risk of a heart attack. Would he even survive the month? I could also revive him from his grunge band days. That version of my dad wouldn’t even know I exist and perpetually have a joint in his mouth. They’re both my dad, just different versions of him. So, summoning the Heroic Spirit would mean summoning every single version of a person at every single point in their life. If that’s the case, then Archer just means sometime during this bodybuilder’s life he used a bow. This Servant, this version of him, is a snapshot of that period of his life. 

“This Armstrong would only manifest as a Rider. This war already has a Rider, thus he wouldn’t be eligible.” Archer finishes. 

“I’m surprised you both know Neil Armstrong. Didn’t he die before your time? Mary’s like what, from whenever Downton Abbey’s set and big guy, you a caveman?”

Archer chuckles, “That would amuse Father. We’re summoned as Servants. Our undertakings on this plane are documented and sent back to the main body in the Throne of Heroes. I know every single thing that I have done in the entire history of mankind. In spite of that, being summoned with such knowledge causes a paradox. The Grail and the World itself limits our knowledge to that of when we were alive and the information the Grail bestows upon us to function in the present. Needless to say, in the event of being summoned an area devoid of the World’s influence, one should be able to recall previous summonings to some extent.”

“You keep calling this place you’re coming from the ‘Throne.’ So, it’s just a throne high up in the sky and all you do is sit there, absorbing information about what the Servant did, like a sponge?” 

“A misnomer binding the physical and metaphysical. The Throne is a catalog cosmos outside of the World. It is close to what is known as the beginning and end of all existence but not actually within that nexus. The terminology alludes to the common expression, ‘the seat of X.’”

It’s an awkward expression, but I think it means ‘on the level of.’ In this case, the Throne of Heroes is not necessarily a literal throne, it’s just the place heroes go because they are heroes. In that respect, it’s the ‘seat of a hero.’ I wonder if there is a ‘seat of puppies.’ But there were two words he said — 

“The afterlife for you guys is just being a disembodied sponge that soaks up endless amounts of information about yourself? Now you’re summoned to fight each other? That’s depressing.” 

This is more or less the doctrine of a cult, like Scientology. I’ve watched a lot of daytime television. Psychics get people to believe they can talk to deceased family members because they have prior information and the people want to believe. In front of me are actual dead people, sure, but that doesn’t mean they’re right about everything. All they have is their own subjective experience which we generalize to categorize all life. No one is completely right, especially when it's about what happens after death, even if you’re dead. 

“He only says that because he doesn’t get invited to the cooking classes,” Mary offers a snide remark that makes no sense. 

“That demonic proprietress prioritizes female Japanese monsters for her sixty-day culinary course. There’s one hero who never graduates. There are hardly any seats left.” 

I want to ask how a disembodied information sponge in a ‘catalog cosmos’ can cook, but honestly, whatever. They should hear themselves, barrages of earnest jargon coming from their mouths, hypotheticals with seemingly no relation to each other being supplied. I think that the worst part of this makeshift ice-cream social has been the number of things that these so-called heroes believe themselves to know and yet merely gloss over. But then again, the only reason why any of this would not be insane is if this was truly how the world worked. Or would its validity make this world the more insane? 

The people we learn about in history class are taken after they have died and entered in this gigantic database of ‘heroes.’ Doesn’t that piss you off? Who are you to determine whether a life is worth memorializing? Then again, aren’t these barbs aimed at ‘you,’ just aimed right back at ‘us?’ Who decides the people we deem worthy of carving into our cultural consciousness and are taught to later generations. Who gets to go viral? 

This throne they’re talking about is just some concrete, yet cosmic realization of a principle so ingrained in our lives that people are willing to do so much and some do so little for. We constantly tell each other and ourselves that we can create meaning for ourselves, something that makes this life worth living, that’s enough. Be satisfied. If that’s enough then why do we incessantly tweet about it? Get over yourself, already. Everything coming out of the Servants’ mouths is insane. But I can’t help but wonder whether it’s the concepts themselves that are insane or because each phrase mirrors something I need to reject so much that I can’t help shielding my eyes.

*****

The two Servants keep chatting until I’m so bored I can’t help asking Archer what he was watching on that little screen.

“A reinterpretation of my labors,” he turns the LCD towards me and there’s a cartoon woman with an almost two-dimensional waist wringing her hair dry in front of an orange muscular man with armor that protects less than it reveals. A few years ago, Krista wouldn’t stop talking about a Tumblr breakdown of the different eras of Disney. We ended up watching all the movies from what the fandom pretentiously dubbed the ‘Renaissance.’ Can’t forget Hercules. 

“No offense, big guy, but you’re more Elephant man than Disney heartthrob.”

“Girl,” There’s a slight wary menace in Mary’s tone. She knows better than I do that we could be nothing more than blood spatters on the wall if this alleged demigod honestly took offense. 

“This era severely lacks worship. Elephants were among the most distinguished Divine Beasts. If necromantically processed correctly, elephants are more potent than most magical beasts. Underestimated creatures, elephants.” He boyishly winks after saying another jumble of words. There’s nothing more revolting than gleefully referencing a squad joke to someone outside of your social circle. Aren’t elephants Indian, anyway? 

“At the end of the movie, you became a god again, right? Aren’t you pretty much the strongest Servant in this war then?” 

He offers us a quizzical smile. I want to throw up. My mom’s a senior partner at a big interior design firm. Mostly, it’s helping Tolosa’s rich and famous decorate their supposedly lavish homes for special events. Sometimes, she’ll take on an intern from the college during summer break. In her mind, she’s more than just a mentor. The way she slavishly tries to groom them for this profession makes me want to throw up the same way. Intentions that are too noble, too self-righteously heroic. No matter what we ask, he will even compromise his own wellbeing to give us the best possible information. That’s not because he’s a nice guy who went from zero to hero by going the distance as the movie says. It’s because, like my mother to her intern, Archer cannot conceive of Mary and myself as threats. To Archer, we may as well be his kids. 

That’s why he takes my hand without hesitation and motions for Mary to take the other. I blink three times before I’m convinced this is actually some sort of augmented reality display. 

“Focus on the flow of our magical energy. The Holy Grail supplies Masters with clairvoyance that grants them the ability to compare Servants. What do you see, child?” 

It looks like one of my brother’s video game menus, just with fewer numbers. There’s Strength, Constitution, Agility, Magical Energy, Luck, and ‘Noble Phantasm’ and next to each of these statuses for Archer is a butterfly. Constitution and Luck have a butterfly that is just emerging out of its chrysalis. At the same time, the butterflies that make up his strength and constitution are blue whereas the other butterflies are just orange. Mary, on the other hand, doesn’t have a single butterfly. 

“Servants are not limited to mere statistics; we are given skills based on techniques developed or legendary characteristics. Each class inherently grants one or two skills. For my class, they are Independent Action and Magic Resistance.” 

There are big fat butterflies on these two as well. Makes me not want to read the descriptions. Archer and Mary’s class skills might be visible, but I’m unable to make out some of these ‘Personal’ skills, so I ask about those. 

“Personal Skills are specific to each Servant, you’ll only be able to read them after they have been performed,” Mary answers this time. 

For Archer, I can see Bravery, Divinity, and Eye of the Mind (False), all with butterflies of course. There seems to be one more but it’s blank. As for Mary, I can only see the skill Powerless Shell, and for some reason, there isn’t even a caterpillar egg next to it. It would seem that the skills which are characteristic of the Servant like Divinity are automatically unlocked upon seeing the Servant, but skills like Eye of the Mind would only unlock after seeing Archer in battle. I want to laugh. How perverse can this system get? Not only does it give out arbitrary ranks for vague metrics, but it rewards you for spectating ghosts fighting to the death.

I let go of both of their hands. This is getting tiresome. I can go through it all on my own later; I don’t need someone to spoon-feed me a video game rulebook.

“Shall we discuss Noble Phantasms?” Archer asks. 

“No thanks, Herc. I’ve got to get to school to umm... hand in my observations.” 

He crumples the disposable ice-cream cup in his fist and shoots it into the trash, while still facing me, 

“I am unsure why they chose that name for the movie. I may not have been born with this name but the one I lived by was Herakles.” 

“Hera...kles. Oh, you’re named after your mom, that’s cute.” 

“For you, child, Archer’s fine.”


	10. 9/ Forsake

**9/ Forsake**

I know, five guys hanging out in a basement half-filled with a bench press that doubles as a squat rack, an incline leg press, and a cable machine you can also use for seated rowing exercises or lat pulldowns sound like squad goals, but instead of working out we’re all seated on the second-hand couches watching a show set in the Midwest about what it was like to be young and white in the seventies for probably the third time. 

“When I watched this show as a kid, I had no idea why they sat in the circle,” Jaime takes a hit from a spiral, glass pipe that smells like any of the local breweries that let people under twenty-one in because they happen to double as a restaurant. 

After wiping the mouthpiece with his t-shirt, he passes it to his left, but Mike gestures that he doesn’t want any. He offers the pipe to me instead, “Chris? You gonna take a hit?” 

I shake my head, “Remember last time?” Last time being a month ago.

“You should get that checked out.” Hasan takes the pipe. “Imagine the news, Catholic Prep School kid can’t get high. Took months of peer pressure too.”

These are who you could call my ‘boys.’ We took English last year and were put in a group together. They’ve hung out with each other ever since. Because of how close I live to the school as well as my ‘strict’ upbringing, I’m here a lot less. Since I’m no longer the overseer of the Holy Grail War, there’s no better way to spend my afternoon other than deepening the bonds I might have been neglecting in favor of a certain pretend girlfriend. I might say that but all that ever happens in Mike’s basement is five teenage boys tepidly working-out, playing GTA V, or attempting to intoxicate ourselves. For the record, none of us are over twenty-one, but Mike’s family is ‘cartel rich’ according to Ian. If drinking when you’re eighteen is good enough for Mexico, it’s good enough for California. California was annexed from Mexico, remember?

“So, how’s Kayla, Chris?” Hasan asks after taking two hits without coughing. Got to give him credit, he’s upped his tolerance in the last month I haven’t been in this basement. 

“Nothing much. Her dad’s pretty happy about me. Seems like a pretty chill guy.”

“Look at Chris changing the subject like that. Trying to play it cool with that resting bitch face, that’s cute. You’re smitten, aren’t you?” 

“Sure.” I don’t even know what I’m admitting to. Hasan’s the type of guy who likes to be right. He wants you to know that he’s seen through whatever facade you’ve tried to put on for the world. All indications of denial are met with teasing skepticism, so it’s easier to grit your teeth and just agree. 

“What about you Mikey. How’s Delilah?” 

“Curfew. Parents are worried about that colony stuff. The ones they’re calling vampire attacks.”

My stomach starts to eat itself at that word. 

“Freaky shit happens at the men’s colony all the time. No one’s going to escape.” Jaime has a scowl on his face, “Dude, if they’re really worried about vampires — should probably just eat some garlic. That shit’s good for you.” 

Ian looks away from his laptop, “Or fill up on some holy water at Chris’s place. Even the dish water’s holy, right.” 

I stifle a laugh that tries to force itself from my mouth when I notice that no one else is laughing.

“Must be pretty nice living in the Mission. The receptionist is pretty cute,” Jaime remarks. 

“You’re so shallow brah; she’s got a great personality as well.” Ian cups his chest, “A great set of personalities, if you know what I mean.”

Jaime half-mockingly raises an eyebrow while making an ‘o’ with his mouth. 

“Fucking Ian. Dude, that’s why you’re still single.” Mike says to Ian while looking over at me for a retort. “First, you’re saying racist shit like my family’s rolling in cartel money and now you’re stalking Chris’ guardian. What else are you going to report to Kim Jong Un?” 

The peanut gallery pesters me into defending Cherry’s honor. “She could probably whoop all us with a skillet if she wanted to. I’m not the one you have to look out for, anyway. Her boyfriend’s built and a lawyer. He’d beat your ass and then take it to court.” 

“Cherry has a boyfriend?” Hasan sounds interested. 

“He comes to visit for a week or two every four months or so. Last time he fixed up my bike. The one that got wrecked downtown.”

“If it wasn’t for someone’s chicken legs we would have cleared that ditch.” Jaime lowers his gaze at Mike. 

“Calves every day and still. . . chicken legs, eh, eeehhhyyyyy.” Hasan shakes his head. 

Mike doesn’t say a word; his glower tells the entire story. 

“He fixed my bike and wanted to call it Number Five. If anything, this bike would be a Mark II, but he insisted that even if this bike looked like a Number Four, someone back home would be jealous, so that’s why it was Number Five.”

“Dude, you sure you’re not second-hand high?” 

I brush Ian off with a quick retort about how even a vampire would get high if it sucked his blood right now. Everyone politely laughs.

*****

I was the last to leave Mike’s basement. It’s pretty late into the afternoon and I know I shouldn't keep Cherry waiting for dinner, but I can’t get the old man’s words out of my head. He weaves steel into that gentle voice of his, creating this web that you can’t get out of, especially if you struggle. Even without any magical energy, his opinions are amazingly similar to suggestion. I think that’s why I asked Mike if I could come over today. I believed that it might be possible to dissolve that web in the acidity of company and high school normality. Turned out as ineffective as the weed and alcohol.

“Thanks for the beers, Mike.” 

“Anytime, man. I know you got that church stuff, but we miss you.”

I grabbed the handle to the door. 

“Hey, Chris,” he was scratching his head when I turned back around. “Just wanted to ask. . . are you feeling okay?” 

I smiled, “I’m fine, thanks for worrying.” 

I don’t think that was convincing though because, honestly, if I was fine, I would have gone home instead of this destroyed jeweler’s shop behind the public high school. The building’s a few blocks behind where the battle and summoning took place. This hadn’t been on the front page of the local news. After all, this incident was documented as a simple gas leak. No one was hurt and since the small explosion happened in the kitchen, none of the merchandise in the storefront or storage was damaged. Strange, the bounded field around the stadium should have prevented any damage to surrounding buildings. 

Reported gas leaks that occur in a city hosting a Holy Grail War are never gas leaks. We use gas leaks as an excuse because it’s a minor but scalable incident offering the perfect cover to isolate and then quarantine the area. Because gas leaks are potentially explosive, any structural damage, like the case with this hole in the wall beyond all the Do Not Cross tape can be easily explained away. Furthermore, the public won’t question multiple gas leaks that occur around the same time due to the perceived interconnectedness of the system. 

One of the golden rules of magecraft is that a magical phenomenon should not be hidden with a second magical phenomenon as it makes mystical interference all the more obvious. The appropriate way to hide something magical is to recontextualize the phenomenon as something natural, in this case, a gas leak. Much like if you’re going to hypnotize someone into forgetting they saw you; you want to slip some pills in their pocket to complete the image. 

There’s no real need to enter the building to understand what happened here, but protocol dictates that one should. I open the front door and switch on the lights. It’s a cozy store. There are a few shelves for cheap bangles and pendants. Must be a favorite for Tolosa High students. These shelves only serve as an appetizer for the display cases — everything you would find at Macy's and a few exotic pieces the owners made. I wonder which pieces have nature spirits attached to them, but that’s not why I came here. 

After making my way past the register, I unlock the door which leads to the workshop. Father Phahn’s team have broken all the enchantments. There’s still intense magical energy practically dripping from every corner of the room even though most of it should have already leaked out of the orange-sized hole in the wall. It goes without saying: this was Assassin’s Master’s workshop. 

The reason why Assassin stopped mid-attack must have been because, ironically, her Master was assassinated and the supply of magical energy abruptly stopped. Even in the unlikely scenario that Assassin had Independent Action as a Personal Skill, the unexpected severing of a contract would have some kind of feedback. 

The more interesting question concerns the hole in the wall. Anyone with magecraft experience could detect the broken wards outside. That is normal; in any magecraft battle involving territory, wards are going to break. The issue is that those wards are actually strong, much stronger than anything I could produce. I’m sure even if I were to request an RPG from the Church and for some reason not be denied because I have no idea how to operate an RPG and this is just meant to be simple mediation work, I still might not be able to get through all the defensive layers. For that reason, as well as the intense magical energy surrounding that hole, the only thing that could have been able to penetrate all these defenses, as well as any defenses the Master had on them, would be a long-range Noble Phantasm. With that deduction, I take one of the only intact chairs and have myself a good sit. 

I know that I shouldn’t be here; this isn’t my job anymore. As Executors, we’re taught not to linger too much on the previous mission. God loves and forgives us. We must look to the next heresy that is an affront to Him. 

Call it egotism, call it how I was raised, but I can’t seem to let this overseer position go. I lost everything during the accident. I don’t remember anything except for the bubbles escaping from all the people I, allegedly, loved. I understand that I can’t go back and continue walking my former path, but becoming a member of the Church, dedicated to protecting people against the monsters that killed my parents felt close to a future that boy who drowned with my family hoped for. Ever since I was picked up from that hospital by an old man and lady too kind for their own good, I have been groomed to mediate this Holy Grail War. In a word, this job is what I ‘should’ be doing. 

My hand goes to my brow trying to ward off the golden sunset seeping through the hole in the wall. It’s rather disheartening to be in a room where a Master died such a violent death and have absolutely no talent in spiritual evocation. I’m sure if I was able to hold a seance to summon the leftover thoughts of the Master that the land still retained, a woman with a slick tail of black hair and raven-like features would appear. She would tell me her name as well as the circumstances of her death to which I would soundlessly nod and tell her that I was sorry for her having passed. 

The dead have no need for knowledge of the living, they’re too busy being dead, so she wouldn’t ask me about the current state of her Servant. Instead, she would fuss about all the toadstones she had created and treasury of poisons that made up this workshop. I would just smile, not letting her know that the room she died in was bare. Eventually, the leftover thought would disappear into effervescent magical energy and once again I would be left alone in this room. I know that this can’t happen because I don’t know how to hold a seance, but what I felt as she was fading must be real. 

That woman was a magus. Cherry said that one of the first rules about being a magus is that it’s okay to kill other magi. Yet, no matter what this woman did, no matter what powers she might have had, no matter what she chose to participate in, this woman must have had fears, dreams, and appetites like any other person. I would be able to tell what those were if I knew any sort of spiritual evocation, but that’s beside the point. No matter what they were, no matter what she was, at yesterday’s end, she died as an idiotic, pathetic, weak, human being, just like me — just like everyone else. 

The old man said that I was the type of blindly obey orders. On the other hand, I want to believe that I have the ability to discriminate between things that I should and shouldn’t do. Relinquishing this overseer position to a more qualified authority who should generally share the same values that I do as we are both members of the same overarching organization with the same goals is something that I should do. Even if I don’t, the city no longer recognizes my position, my own family has given up on attempting to regulate this Holy Grail War, and most importantly none of the Masters acknowledge my being overseer any longer. 

_Dilo is dead, all he left for me is a letter, and now everything is worse._

The reason why I can’t let go of this overseer position doesn’t have anything to do with Dilo, the Church, or this city, though. I want to believe it’s as human as this Master who warmed this chair. Ever since I arrived at the Mission, I have always been Chris Frampton — the only thing that I have ever been proud to be. They say that you develop a sixth sense for the most important things in your life — a terrible premonition attracts a terrible reality or something like that. The feeling is an uneasiness that dresses the pit of your stomach, anxiously calling out to every single fiber in the structure. The moment I let go of this overseer position is when I will lose a part of Chris Frampton, the person I have been building ever since I woke up in that hospital room. 

I. . . I like me. I really like this me, no matter how idiotic, pathetic, or weak I may be. So, in the location where the first casualty of the Holy Grail War that forsook me took place, I vow to stay on this path, to oversee this ‘magi squabble’ even if no one asks it of me or wants me. This is nothing more than a selfish wish. It has nothing to do with public safety, the safety of the participants, or even my own safety. I just want to hold onto who I am for two more weeks so I can remain the person that boy wanted to become. Right, on that, I’ll make my pled — 

“Oh, fancy seeing you here. You’re Chris, right? The former overseer.” That voice belongs in one of the empty terrariums littered around the workshop.

I look up to see a tall platinum blonde in a priest’s frock. I must have been so deep in thought that I didn’t feel his presence as he entered — the alternative is too frightening to ponder. 

“Father Phahn, I’m jubilant to finally meet a member of the Eighth Sacrament. Thank you for your service; you truly do important work for the Church.” 

“You’re too kind.” He gestures to an open chair, “Do you mind if I sit?” He sits down without waiting for my answer. 

“I’m sure you’re aware that this is a restricted area for citizens, but out of professional courtesy, I’ll let it slide this time. No harm done. It’s always encouraging to have curious and enthusiastic young members of the clergy.” The smile on his face is viscous honey, slowly dripping into all his features. 

“Pardon me, Father. Having prepared for this position for so long, I couldn’t stop myself from examining first-hand what type of damage these heretics wrought to my beloved city.” I smile. 

“Completely understandable considering the amount of damage that occurred in Snowfield.” He crosses one leg over the other. “And you’ve spent most of your life in this city?” 

“Ever since my parents died and the Church took me in.” 

“This may sound strict, but I believe the best place for your efforts right now is to tend to your flock instead of. . . this.” He gestures at the hole in the wall and the rest of the empty room. “I acknowledge the deterrents we put up wouldn’t hinder an Executor-candidate and that it is only by coincidence that I found you here, but I must remind you, Chris, that you no longer have any official capacity in regards to this Holy Grail War.” 

He says that, but I won’t accept it. I’ve already made my choice in this destroyed workshop, under the golden Tolosa sunset. It’ll take more than some paltry backhanded compliments and a verbal reprimand to stop me from seeing this to the end. 

“As a fellow member of the Church, I feel as though you should know that in our preliminary survey of this town, we’ve determined the presence of an enemy of the Church having arrived in this county.” He lowers his head and clasps his hands. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors, Chris. They’re true. There’s a vampire in Tolosa.” 

Who cares about overseeing a squabble between magi; I’ve got a vampire to hunt.


	11. 10/ Have a Good Time

**10/ Have a Good Time**

Sure, you hear stories about such and such hooking up at a party, but how fucked up do you have to be from the pregame to make out with someone on your classmate’s lawn? Unless you’re a couple — then you guys just have no self-respect. Couples are the worst at parties. You’re just here flaunting the piece of meat on your arm.

“Wouldn’t it be great if you guys ended up like that tonight. Much more romantic than a morning handjob.” I accompany that witticism with an equally ingenious obscene gesture. 

And what’s even more ridiculous for these two is that they both think the other is the piece of meat. 

“Please rise above yourself for one night, Nadine,” my brother’s riposte almost sounded exasperated. Stop faking it. 

“Please suck a handful of dicks.” 

Krista just smiles uncomfortably as we step onto the porch.

*****

Context is important. My mom didn’t drive me home after Mary and I said goodbye to Archer. Krista was waiting for me at school. She had the ‘I want to cry because something is happening not to me but everyone around me and there’s nothing I can do to make it better and I’m so lost but slightly happy at the same time, look on her face — the very same one she wore when her parents finally got divorced.

“Nadine, there’s a party tonight. I want to go with you. . . and him.” 

I raised an eyebrow. 

“I told him that I wouldn’t go unless you agreed to go.” 

“While watching high school kids get wasted and trying to dance to ‘music’, would make my night. I think I’d prefer to go home and kill myself after finishing the stack of homework we got today.” 

“Nadine, don’t say things like that. And you weren’t even at school today.” 

“Exactly why I gotta study. A good GPA may have never got anyone into college, but a terrible one has barred many a student from getting into the school of their dreams. We get like what, a quiz every two days on the material from the previous lesson? I’ve got to hit the books, qurlfriend. Not my fault that the Californian school system is a cycle of cram and forget.” 

“Dream school? You’re always talking about how dreams and wishes are dumb.” 

Low hanging fruit. 

“Come on, no matter what happens, we’re friends, right? We’ve been friends since your family moved here. We’ve never been to a party before. This is a new experience and I want to have that experience with you. If you actually care so much about getting into a reach school, you’d know the best schools always have the wildest parties. Think of this as practice.” 

“No one wants us there, Krista.” 

“Your brother wants me there and I want you there. That’s enough, right?”

“He’s a douche, get over him already.”

Again, she makes the same expression which accents her dimples that are seemingly drilled into her face. I look around and can’t find that perfect, Forever 21 catalog model face anywhere. 

“Where is that mama’s boy anyway?” 

“He’s going to the gym. We should probably get something to eat first and meet him at your place.” 

_Hittin’ the gym, and in a few years hittin’ his wife._ IMO.

*****

The moment I step through the threshold into the party…. Actually, the atmosphere already tore open the front door. The entire playlist consists of EDM tracks that a true aficionado would lecture you on how EDM is an umbrella term and each specific song belongs to a subgenre with a long history and influences from pioneers people ‘just didn’t get.’ I don’t know anything about EDM, that’s just what I heard from a guy in a tank top on the porch who’s alternating between a Rolling Rock and his post-workout protein shake. I know it’s a post-workout shake because I can smell the testosterone from here. Either way, Rolling Rock gives my brother a fist bump as we enter the din. Football teammates, of course.

Have you ever watched one of those ridiculous teen movies that became a sensation in the late nineties and early two-thousands? They always have a party scene that serves as a vehicle to introduce minor characters or moves the plot by splitting the main characters so we can delve into the relationships that make up the subplots. Yeah, that’s all wrong. No one can talk or hear each other in this din. We’re pretty close to Frat Row so no one’s going to complain about the noise but it’s still crazy that a high schooler can throw a rager like this. Those are the rich kids of the not-so desperate housewives of Tolosa for you. I’m sure the host goes to Mission Prep. 

After a fistful of bombastic hi-fives, bro hugs, and fist bumps, my brother leads us to the drinks table. There are two thirty-rack of lite beer, a fifth of plastic vodka from Trader Joe’s, a handle of Captain Morgan’s, and a glass flask of Fireball that people vehemently refuse to do shots of then do them anyway before complaining about how bad it was. Then they woo. 

I would want to say this is a pretty typical spread, but I haven’t been to enough parties to know. Even though the music is ‘lit af” no one’s dancing, they’re just standing around in little groups like sardines in separate cans, nodding and laughing at jokes that no one can hear. Even so, the sardines look like they’re having fun or are so intoxicated they can’t tell the difference. 

I see my brother pat Krista on the shoulder and motioning her to follow, “There. . . people. . . meet!”

She nods vigorously and takes his hand. That leaves good ol’ Nadine amidst the liquor and lack of food. 

“Wow. . . great. . . to officially meet. . . .” Krista’s hugging some girl from math class. “That top is so cute!” 

My stomach turns. It does so many flips that I push my way into the hallway only to find a line of visibly uncomfortable high schoolers supporting themselves on the wall. Fuck. Ignoring them, I rush to the second floor and start opening all the doors. Three people are passed out in one room, two guys making out in another, and in the last one, a girl sobs uncontrollably while drunkenly pouring her heart out to her Snapchat story. Yuck. But this entire night has been an awkward yuck. Eventually, I find the main bedroom and enter the adjoining suite. 

If you’re rich and live in Tolosa, your main bedroom is always going to have a bathroom suite. It’s pretty much a status symbol. The new houses being built up in Paso with all that wine money — all have suites. Words of wisdom that could only come from my mom. 

Reflected in the mirror is an awkward, ugly, pathetic girl who could do with losing some weight and growing a few inches, “God, Nadine, just don’t be so weird! God, why are you so awkward. Just have a good time like everyone else here. Just relax and have a good time.”

“Dearie, are you okay?” Mary materializes on the toilet. “I didn’t expect this social gathering to be so rambunctious.” 

“Now you’re talking to a ghost in a bathroom at a house party,” I tell the reflection. “You are truly pathetic.”

Mary instantly dematerializes as I open the bathroom door and head down the stairs and through the swarm of people. When I end up back at the drinks table, Krista appears and grabs my wrist. 

“Hey! I think I’m going to play beer pong!” She then proceeds to woo. 

Before waiting for an answer, she heads over with her new friend and laughs with her as if they’re old friends, leaving me to take off my jacket and stand slightly behind a small circle of people, nervously laughing at a joke that I can’t hear because of the music before realizing they feel awkward that I’m standing here. I walk away, not feeling dejected, yet. I do this twice; the first time because we live in a culture that emphasizes putting ourselves out there to be challenged, and the second time because we’ve been conditioned to be afraid of failing. There’s no third time. 

So here I stand, looking at all the perfect WASP-y, photoshopped, family pictures wondering who slips an extra Xanax into their clean bulk mass gainer or pre-cleanse spirulina superfood berry smoothie since even the drunk guys holding up the walls and the faded girls in fetal position on the ground (two snaps of the bong) don’t want anything to do with me. My presence seems to be making this party less fun for everyone, so I step outside to find even the couple making out on the lawn no longer there. 

There’s a little circle of people passing around a joint at one end of the porch, but if I were to join them, seeking inclusion under the guise of pursuing a high then, wow, you would truly be desperate for human attention wouldn’t you, Nadine? Instead, I sit next to the hedge with my ghost. 

“Parties suck. Did I ever tell you how my mother kept trying to throw me a party for my tenth birthday because my brother got one every year? She even told me that I would have more friends if I let her throw me a bomb birthday party. She actually said ‘bomb.’” 

“‘Bomb,’ that’s like ‘cracker’ ain’t it? Like a cracker of a birthday party.”

“But like, Mary, how could anyone want to throw this sort of party? Drinking flavored fermented wheat tea, throwing a ping-pong ball into a cup, inhaling burning skunk grass. Why can’t people just have genuine conversations while enjoying a movie or playing a board game?”

Mary’s features are very deep-set. They give her this intensity that you wouldn’t expect from a cook which multiplies the emotion behind every single expression. The reason why I’m bringing this up is because her entire face has slackened into crestfallen disappointment tingled with slight bewilderment before it tightens under the porch lamp a quarter covered in flies. 

“You’re a buck eedjit, dearie. I don’t know what you’re looking at, but this craic is quite brilliant.” There’s a wisp of a smile on her face, “Aye, your brother isn’t the man you want him to be. You might not be noticing but he’s been keeping an eye on your friend’s drink the entire night. When anyone too steamboated attempts to get close, he always puts his arm over that person’s shoulder asking if they’re okay. He’s had more than one drink spilled on him because of it. Wise up, girl, you could do much worse for a brother.”

Excuse me, I’ve had enough of this. I’ll even walk home by myself if it means getting away from this hot mess.

*****

There are a few streets in Tolosa that are safe to walk at night. Santa Rosa bisects the top half of the town, eventually becoming part of Highway 1. Oh, Highway 1, when pop love songs mention driving a sports car down the coast of California, they’re talking about Highway 1. All I have to do is cross three roads of suburbia upon this hill and I’ll be on Santa Rosa. There’s a ghost beside me if I get into any trouble too, so here goes something.

There isn’t much that I do with my phone other than post pictures to my private Insta only Krista has access to, use Facebook for group projects, and call my mom. The number of functions on this thing is excessive, but I’m always thankful there’s GPS navigation. Sure, Google and Apple are tracking your every move and selling that data to tampon companies, but there’s a big difference between getting home and not. Tonight, I’ve walked five minutes in a direction but it hasn’t registered on the GPS. Full bars plus LTE coverage too. There’s an episode of ‘The Office,’ where Steve Carell’s character drives into a lake because he insisted on following the GPS. Technology’s a lot more trustworthy these — 

“Nadine,” Mary materializes. There’s an edge to her voice, “Stay behind me.” 

The moment she finishes her warning, all the streetlights switch off. 

Crash. 

Why aren’t people coming out of their houses? Couldn’t they hear that crash? The sound was like a car macerating a streetlight at full speed. Please, no, that can’t happen again, so I’ll use my phone as a flashlight. 

“Huh?” 

Light is cast on whatever’s in front of me. Only disbelieving shock keeps dinner and the alcohol in my stomach. Mary, where are you? Where did you go? 

“Mary!” I take a step forward. This is bad. This is really bad because death is creeping up my neck. Instinctively, I take that step back so I can start running in the opposite direction but my body just collapses from the panic. My knees crumple and my body goes limp, but it doesn’t collapse onto the tar street. A clammy claw grabs my face and now my feet are no longer touching the ground. No matter what happens, I won’t let go of my phone, because I’ve finally found Mary. 

She’s splayed right next to a fallen streetlight. God, there’s so much blood pooling from her. This is bad. This is really bad. This is so bad that I almost couldn’t feel the pain coming from my hand. 

“Curious and curiouser,” I can see it through the gaps of its fingers, “A Master allowing her thaumaturgical energy (魔力, maryoku, lit. “supernatural power;” previously transliterated as “magical energy/mana;” incorrectly translated as “prana”) leak (漏れている, morete-iru, lit. “leak-ing”) extant, sauntering around without a bound (隠された, kakusareta, lit. “hidden” ) Command Spell (令呪, reijuu)? Ergo, she seeks engagement. But accompanying a Servant unto granted such a mediocre Saint Graph (霊基, reiki, lit. “Spiritual Foundation”) must be a potently rotted [Saint Graph] core (核, kaku, lit. “nucleus”).” 

Even if it’s still dark, I can see its eyes. They’re as red as the blood coming from the cuts on Mary’s face as she tries to mouth my name. 

“Ahh –”

I try to scream, but nothing comes out. My brain shuts down from attempting to go into overdrive but fails over and over again. I can’t move. Nothing in this body can move. Those eyes don’t just observe, but also thrust molten butterscotch into me, attempting to smother my nerves so the claw around my head may more easily drink.

“She summoned a Servant, yet the manner of switching on her Thaumaturgical Circuits (魔術回路, majutsu kairo) is unknown to her? My, what a truly lackluster (欠けている, kakete-iru, lit. “to be deficient/insufficient”) lineup.” It opens its mouth revealing cheap, Target Dracula fangs. I don’t think they’re plastic. 

I can’t accept this. In the next moment, Count Chocula here is going to suck my blood. This is disgusting. This is gross. I don’t want to be another vampire movie cliche. There’s no one here to help you, Nadine. Turns out the cook was really just a cook. You’re going to die because you left a party. Why did you leave the party? Because you couldn’t stand your best friend leaving you for more interesting people. And why wouldn’t she? Look at yourself. Didn’t Krista say as much? You don’t even have a dream. There’s nothing that you want to do; all that you have inside of you is this painful emptiness that stops your heart. 

And I can’t forget that. I can’t forget that because it’s where I began as a person. 

That stopped heart starts leaking hot tears that spread throughout my body, melting my butterscotch shackles. It hurts, it really hurts. I want to say that, but this feeling is beyond pain. It’s a tear that humans should not be able to grasp and therefore will inevitably rip apart one’s existence. As the deluge of tears reaches my fingertips, I begin to struggle, trying to get its hand off my face. It doesn’t budge. I may have gotten ahold of my body, but he’s too strong. It won’t even take a second for those hackneyed fangs to dig into my neck. 

I don’t stop struggling; I don’t close my eyes; I don’t stop screaming. I’m weak. I’m really weak - that’s why I’m going to die. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m _NOT_ afraid of dying. It’s just too pathetic to die like this. . . .

Some abstract, supernatural flow halts. Much like a small rock that’s thrown at a window, the stone pierces through but the resulting force shatters the entire window. 

A gloved hand digs into the wrist of the arm holding me.

“You weren’t expected. . . Berserker.” 

“Let go of the girl.” In her other hand is a gigantic revolver with multiple barrels pointed at the vampire’s face. 

“Heroic Spirit (英霊, eirei) or not, my power (能力, nouryoku, lit “abilities”) engaged make subsequently evading fired bullets (弾丸, dangan) nothing so much as extant.” 

She tightens her grip on his wrist. “Let go of the girl,” she repeats one final time. 

This is a Servant’s true power. Berserker’s undertow, her chaotically, insane killing intent, threatens to engulf the vampire. Even if that thing is undead, it has no other option but to let me go if it wants to live a little while longer. With that, the grip on my face relaxes and my feet touch the ground once more. 

Without looking at me, Berserker says one word, “Run.” 

I want to say something to Berserker, but there are too many questions running through my head — like why is there a bed on the street. I just put my phone inside my blue jacket pocket and run towards the road. I don’t need to confirm that Mary is with me. We’ve been together long enough that I know how to distinguish between her ghost form and her physical one. 

My lungs are burning but the chill of the cold air keeps me from taking my jacket off. Once again, I almost died, but instead of being attacked by a skull-masked ninja, it was a vampire. There’s no way I can put up with two more weeks of this shit. It was a mistake; it was _definitely_ a mistake to participate in this battle royale. Another terrible decision from Neigh-dine. Tomorrow morning, I’m going straight back to the bowl-cut priest to hand over Mary. 

Oh right, Mary’s hurt. How are you supposed to patch up an injured ghost? It’s not like we can just pop up at the ER. Whatever, Nadine, one failure at a time. I just need to cross this intersection and then I’ll be on Santa Rosa. Then it’s just a ten-minute walk home. This is definitely something even you can’t screw up, you stupid bitch.

The screeching of brakes rings through the night with the scent of burnt rubber wafting behind it. 

Oh. . . I forgot this intersection had a blind corner. 

Like a deer in the headlights —


	12. 11/ This Will Was Surely Made of Steel

**11/ This Will Was Surely Made of Steel**

**~Interlude~**

As the Master and her Servant became distant, swallowed into the night, the vampire dared look Berserker in the eye.

Bang.

With a fluid motion, Berserker jerked on her opponent's wrist with supernatural strength, pulling him into the multiple barrels of her pepperbox while firing. The force of the attack coupled with the spray of bullets sent him flying into a nearby brick fence, smothering the area with a cloud of pulverized brick. 

Particulate matter less than ten microns is a Group 1 carcinogen. Remember to disperse all dust clouds, Berserker.

Something stained her left glove red. It must have been the blood seemingly holding together the vampire's right arm. She was holding his forearm so tightly that when the force of the attack blew him away, the arm alone stayed with Berserker. Berserker dropped the arm onto the ground and began to walk away. With the bounded field gone, it wasn’t safe to fight on this street any longer. Too narrow, too enclosed, any more suspicious sounds could disrupt the sleep of children. Bed rest was important — a tenet that Berserker lived by while alive. She was not about to put the circadian rhythms of parents and their children at risk on a school night to further tussle with a vampire.

"Is that per the extent of a fragment of the Rationality of Man (人理, jinri) manifest unto an iterated corpus? Disappointing! How disappointing, Counter Force (抑止力)!"

His arm and face might have still been reforming, but he managed to close the distance between the combatants in one bound. His left hand metamorphosized into a claw sharp enough to tear through Berserker's body with one strike. The bullet-like claw shot from the barrel, his arm, at a speed of 2,500 inches per second and capable of producing more than 3,000 pounds per inch of kinetic energy.

But material numbers like those didn’t matter to a Servant.

With surgeon-like precision, Berserker intercepted the claw with a chop, cleanly fracturing the radius and ulna. That would disrupt any strike and send the human attacker reeling in pain, but the claw still managed to gash her torso. The dark red blood stained the white trimmings of her crimson uniform, but Berserker, true to her name, did not recognize the wound. It could be disinfected later. In reply, she fired a round at point-blank, aimed right at the center of the vampire's forehead.

True to his previous words, he detected Berserker's intention, predicted her target, and craned his neck far enough to the side so the bullet only grazed his layered blond hair. What he didn't notice during his performance was that Berserker had detached one of the bags from around her waist, and swung it with all her might at the soft tissue around his kidney area.

Anatomy Knowledge: A

Berserker's most trusted ability. Through the exaggerated training she supposedly obtained while alive, an encyclopedic knowledge of human anatomy had been forced on Berserker. From simply glancing at the opponent, she could instantly grasp a person's physical medical history. Furthermore, through each attack, she opened up old wounds, fractured bones to disable movement, and targeted vulnerable organs to cause internal bleeding — creating holes in the absolute armor known as one's body, leaving one's greatest asset an increasing liability.

The beings humans have deemed heroes were unsurprisingly, mostly human. While Servants possess an Ether body, in the world of magecraft, taking a specific form required one to take a portion of its functions. For instance, with each breath Servants cycled magical energy through their body much in the same way humans do oxygen. It was no exaggeration to call Berserker, who's fighting style targeted the weakness of a human body with pinpoint accuracy, a Servant-Killer, yet. . . .

The impact pushed him off balance but didn’t knock the air out of his lungs as intended. If she had succeeded, Berserker's next attack would sweep him off his feet, allowing her to stake his heart with an arm. But the moment she initiated the maneuver, her leg was caught by impossible darkness — the vampire's cape hardened through some sort of mystery. Hard enough to block a Servant's all-out attack, still supple enough to wrap itself around her leg, and strong enough to act as a fulcrum, the caped darkness hurled her into the ground again and again and again. Each impact cracked the road she was slammed into; her ears ringing with the failure to subdue her supernatural opponent.

"A-a minor injury," a pain-filled gasp was finally discharged.

On this night, her opponent was not human No matter how they might look, vampires are pure creatures of mystery — as foreign to humans as oni. No sane person could expect that techniques used to destroy a human body would offer the same effect against a vampire.

Yet, she continued to shatter his kneecaps, believing he would kneel.

Yet, she continued to crush his spine, believing his lower body would seize up, paralyzed.

Yet, she continued to box his ears, believing rupturing his eardrums would destroy his sense of balance.

That was the disadvantage of the Berserker class — the inability to adapt to the current situation and readjust combat tactics. Normally, a high rank in Mad Enhancement would force the Berserker to function similar to an automaton — a tool rather than a partner. However, this Berserker went beyond even that. Not only was she incapable of readjusting her tactics, but she also would not heed her Master's pleas.

A machine with a steel heart would not, could not, deviate from the way humanity claimed she lived her life. In exchange for that uncompromising, indomitable approach to any problem that would only lead one to self-destruction. . . 

The cape pulled Berserker into the vampire's arms as he bared his fangs.

Berserker was faster — she pulled back, forcing the vampire to overreach, losing his balance.

Berserker was better equipped — using her teeth, she tore the pin off the grenade that manifested in her empty hand.

Berserker was stronger — in one motion, she drove the grenade into the vampire's chest, piercing flesh and bone before rolling backward while firing several rounds from her pepperbox.

Thank you, Mr. Vampire, for re-establishing the bounded field while you were splayed on the ground, covered in Group 1 carcinogen and missing an arm. Now, the neighborhood children will get their recommended ten hours of sleep even if an Anti-Tank grenade detonates.

The resulting explosion shook everything within the bounded field, leaving a crater right in the middle of the street. The spray of tar and gravel from the explosion coat the stylish stone fences or batter the wooden ones with shrapnel. In an instant, the solidly middle-class street was replaced with a landscape the inhabitants have ever only seen in carefully curated war movies.

Even if vampires could dodge supersonic point-based attacks, their reaction time and speed weren’t nearly enough to escape a point-blank explosion that could destroy a tank. Yes, Berserker was faster, better equipped, and stronger.

"A weaponized domain of Mystery equipped with an armament (武装, busou) of the Man of Modernity is an affront (侮辱, bujyoku, lit. ‘insult’)." 

But the vampire's high-speed regeneration made all three of her advantages completely meaningless. Within seconds, he was able to completely regenerate, black cape and all. "Of course, her Alignment (属性, zokusei, lit. ‘attribute’) is… Man (人). How audacious of me to hope for a better showing."

Perhaps that was Berserker's greatest weakness.

She did not help establish a nation.

She was not a hero of legend who fought monsters to civilize the world.

She has not touched the depths of the arcane in her research.

Her story began and ends like the many often proudly told in this country where she now fights. A brilliant soul unsatisfied with her lot in life, craving something more — she found purpose in war.

Her story was popularized. She didn't mind.

Her story was warped. She couldn't mind.

Most recently, her story was disparaged. She doesn't mind.

A genteel daughter of privilege once despaired that she could be nothing more in life than a socialite's trophy. In rebellion forged in spirituality, she confronted the poverty of the human spirit with administrative rigidity and sweet-smelling statistics. The woman's noble posture became immortalized and in apotheosis, the humanity stripped away. Servant Berserker is nothing more than steel conviction, encased in Humanity's perverted expectations and mania.

She had never physically hurt anyone/ _Her Strength parameter was set to B+._

She had never been wounded/ _Her Constitution parameter was set to A+._

She had never dodged a bullet/ _Her Agility parameter was set to B+._

She had never touched a mystery/ _Her Magical Energy parameter was set to D+._

She… had never thought of herself as lucky/ _Her Luck parameter was set to A+._

Florence Nightingale had never fought. She had never fired a gun, never thrown a grenade, never smothered someone with a pillow. In fact, she was confined to her room for a large portion of her life. The gulf between The Lady of the Lamp and Florence Nightingale was simply too large. It's obvious from the way she fights. With no technique or combat experience, she relies solely on her nursing training, conferred stat modifiers, and expendable body to overwhelm the opponent before they grow accustomed to her amateurish movements. The cracks in the armor of the Nurse of Steel are too evident — she is held together with nothing more than that steel will. The foundation of that will?

February 7th, 1837, God called her to service — to save lives. She fought the undefeatable specter who loomed above the soldier's beds in Scutari — the same one who loomed above her own bed throughout her youth calling for her in its honeyed tones, promising a comfortable, complete, oblivion. She spent her entire life fighting against an all-encompassing inevitability and even now did not waver, did not cease. She did not see the vampire in front of her, never, only the enemy she once wished would hold her with its Romantic throes.

Berserker retreated as the vampire lunged. His actions tonight had been erratic as if trying to break an age-old habit. First, he tried to pierce her chest as if clawing for something and then he reverted to the orthodox bloodsucking. Unbeknownst to Berserker, the only bloodsuckers that were capable of safely draining the energy from a Servant are True Ancestors or Elementals — this vampire was neither.

She kicked up the bed she used to break the bounded field, converting it into a makeshift shield against the barrage of attacks. His claws sliced through the entire bed like a hot knife through butter. In a matter of seconds, the frame was a pile of kindling and the mattress nothing more than tattered rags.

The vampire smiled to himself because he knew that Berserker was no longer behind the bed. That poor attempt of distraction was to mislead him into believing she would comically use the bed as a battering ram. Instead, she counted on the vampire losing himself in the ecstasy of performing a series of elegant attacks — fit for an aristocrat such as himself.

No matter, the vampire thought to himself. No matter, for this is merely an appetizer. A test for the seekers of the Holy Grail unrelated to himself.

It didn’t matter if this Ghost Liner used that ridiculous bed to block his line of sight to take to the sky.

It didn’t matter if she flipped in mid-air, her heel, the blade of an ax kick about to penetrate his skull.

It didn't matter if he lost the left side of his body while doing his best to dodge.

For he will regenerate and jump right back into the fray.

Berserker was unable to land a decisive blow. Of course, this didn’t mean the vampire approached the level of a Servant. Berserker was leagues above this vampire in terms of inherent combat ability and it crushed him to his core and filled him with violent envy that painted the world crimson to say. . . her spiritual rank was higher than his. . . for now. But, their compatibility was terrible, she did not have a conceptual Anti-Unit Noble Phantasm that could deal with his regeneration, neither did she have an Anti-Army or Anti-Fortress Noble Phantasm strong enough to atomize his entire body in one attack.

Then, the result of each exchange was obvious. How many have already taken place? Five? Ten? It was merely a pattern of allowing oneself to be overwhelmed, succumbing to the force, and regenerating. For the vampire, this was par for the course. By reading her increasingly obvious movements, he was able to take the least amount of damage to conserve enough energy for twenty, no, thirty more exchanges while chipping away at that body. 

Each riposte Berserker unflinchingly received shaved off a fraction of her magical energy, increasing the expenditure necessary for the next action. Her healing abilities were substantial enough that it would take mere minutes to address the wounds, but it was the very nature of this class which allowed a Victorian lady to sprint onto the battlefield that prevented her from addressing the damage while she faced a patient who required treatment.

"Yet, each blow and equivalent quantity of fury materialized, incognizant of the preceding exchange’s (輪廻の攻撃, renei no kogeki, lit 'samsara/endless cycle of attacks' ) futility Ergo, forward she forges a repetition of mistakes recurrently incessant — led to broadcast nothing but self-destruction (自己崩壊, jiko hakai, lit ‘self-collapse’) extant."

This wasn’t meaningful anymore. 

Was this truly the extent of the capabilities of the Greater History of Man (汎人類史, han-jinruishi; 汎 is as ‘spanning / wider / greater,’ but usage as a noun prefix is per transliteration of the English "pan-") that subjectively colonized the Solar System with their Law (理, kotowari, lit. ‘principles / rationalities’) known as Science?

How. . . small (小さい, chii-sai).

The vampire's eyes flashed crimson and Berserker could feel her body halt without her permission. Using that interval, he rushed in to sever her head. One might call a Servant's body a magic circuit in and of itself which made directly corroding it with foreign magical energy difficult. The fact that the vampire's Mystic Eyes were able to hold Berserker even for an instant was a testament to their power which did not even reach a Noble Color.

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH-!"

He had not expected Berserker to forgo all defense to focus the entirety of her magical energy into her throat before letting loose a shout that could hardly pass for the heavenly trumpets of angels.

This was the heartfelt cry of the Angel of Crimea.

No combatants rallied behind this war cry.

No soldiers wept because it signaled reinforcements.

No enemies despaired upon hearing it on the battlefield.

This was the self-righteous spirit that dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’ in sanitation reports to the Ministry of War. The unyielding spirit that wrote volumes upon volumes of musings on what nursing is and what it is not. The conscientious spirit that analyzed datum after datum, furiously planting, watering, and then pruning graph after graph as if some kind of saint.

Severe, industrious, pious — the truth of her being was contained within that cry.

Cladding herself in that indomitable will, she used everything she could muster to tear apart the binding of the Mystic Eyes before driving her fist into the vampire's face so that of course he was sent flying to the edge of the bounded field. That attack contained no calculation, no intent, no technique — but it was built with the same tenacity the Lady used to assault each day.

"I see…. Vampirism is a bloodborne disease. Symptoms involve the hardening of clothes, bloodshot eyes, and the inability to be cured through death. I've never treated vampirism before so this will be a useful experience. Reminder to add section ‘How to deal with undying patients' to the 'Petty Management' section of 'Notes on Nursing.'"

The most peculiar thing tonight hadn’t been the battle between a legendary nurse and a vampire, but the fact that neither of them offered a word to the other. Every spoken word had been directed towards oneself; cautioning oneself, praising oneself, explaining to oneself. Almost as if neither of these two mysteries directly acknowledged the other's existence. But that will end now Berserker convinced herself to play her trump card.

To begin with, a Victorian daughter of privilege who rejected pastoral luxury to pursue a call to service from God should know nothing of frivolities such as vampires. If she maintained her sanity, she may have recalled the stories her suitor, the Baron, had shared with her that underlaid the second greatest treasure in his collection: the original 23rd of July, 1816, visitor's page for the Hôtel de Londres in Chamonix. What did come to mind were snatches of stories from her more trusted nurses, scaring trainees into abiding their curfew while breaking their own to go to the local pub. But even those memories had been painted over with a coat of rusted steel paint.

Magical energy began to radiate from Berserker. Invisible spirals of spiritual pressure tested the tensile strength of the bounded field which creaked and cracked under the quantity and volume. A miracle was about to be unleashed upon the world.

"I shall abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous..."

She spun the words of a pledge created after her time, using her call to service as its basis. This was the moment that Nightingale became the ideal all future nurses aspired to live up to. In Berserker's mind, this was the only treatment left that could cure this wretched soul of his vampirism.

"I shall do all in my power to proliferate good health for all!"

The angel in white began to form behind Berserker. The great sword this phantasm carried will purge everything in the area, purifying all toxins and diseases no matter their origin or how far they've tainted the soul.

Although he had regenerated most of his body, the vampire was laying on the other side of the road. Too far away, he couldn’t stop Berserker's invocation no matter how many openings might be on display. What a shame he didn't land closer.

"Nightingale –”

"Ahh-" A dribble of blood leaked from her mouth instead of the remainder of the name.

Berserker looked down. As if mocking her earlier attack, the vampire's arm that she tore off at the beginning of the battle was lodged in her chest.

"This arm's been on the ground. Must disinfect the. . . “

The hand tightened its grip on her heart and. . . .

*****

The Doctor opened the door of her Prius and fell out onto the sidewalk. It had taken all her strength to maintain consciousness behind the wheel. She had lost all color in her face, her pulse was racing, and her breathing was erratic, that is to say, she was going into shock. If a good Samaritan were to come across her at this moment and reached out to the woman writhing on the ground, they would have quickly snatched their hand away. This woman was feverish. . . no, it might be more accurate to say that her nerves themselves were burning up — the cost of using magecraft beyond one's ability.

Using the last of her strength, she broke the seal on the syringe in her hand. What she held in her hands was blasphemy to any magus — red liquid that was visibly filled to the brim with magical energy encased in a disposable syringe one might find the pharmacist at CVS or Rite-Aid using to deliver vaccinations. For the Doctor it was a matter of practice. The traditional, thin octahedral glass vials with metal oxide stoppers were difficult to both sterilize and attach a needle onto.

Groaning, she pulled up her shirt and slipped the needle-tip into a septum slightly above the right side of her pelvis. The liquid rushed through the cannula and pooled into the cecum before the Doctor magically forced her large intestine's powerful muscles to push it into the ascending colon. The spasming started to dissipate and color returned to her face. Most importantly, her magic circuits began to cool down, their burden taken by something else. Although she was not taking additional damage, her skin was slightly charred, the left side of her body was numb, and her brain, overheated and overtaxed, waved in and out of consciousness. Yet, through the force of her will, she was able to stand.

The cost of summoning a Berserker. The Berserker class was usually used to boost the basic abilities of weak Heroic Spirits to give them power they never had during their lives. If that was the criteria for the model Berserker, the Berserker the Doctor summoned may be the cream of the crop. However, the class skill Mad Enhancement rendered the Servant nothing more than a mad warrior that butchered everything in its path without regard for its Master's health. Supremely ironic, considering the identity of the Heroic Spirit the Doctor summoned.

No, it wasn't Berserker's fault. . . at least this time. The cause was right in front of her, a mundane street lit up by an upright streetlight. It might be by design that the street was so narrow since everyone on this block had a driveway. A street that no one wanted to walk through at night. A street that everyone feels safe enough walking through if they must. So safe, that upon seeing this street, they might decide to cross a different street on a whim. Because you see, it's safe.

But in their world, a whim is never truly a whim.

The Doctor's magic circuits might be weak, but she could feel the bounded field that had been erected. The same bounded field that cut off her ability to communicate telepathically with Berserker but was not strong enough to sever the flow of magical energy from Master to Servant. Whether that was intentional, the Doctor didn’t know. She was sitting in her office sharing Berserker's view of the events through their Master-Servant link when her Servant stopped responding and started draining substantial quantities of magical energy. She believed that she could hold out, find Berserker before too much magical energy was drained. After all, her supply of syringes was limited and no more could be made — her penalty for joining the Holy Grail War. With Berserker's presence having disappeared, the only thing the Doctor could do was to track her magical energy to the road where it stopped — the location of the battle.

"Argh —” the cry escaped the Doctor's throat.

Hot. The imaginary friction of her rotating circuits sent her internal temperature skyrocketing. Berserker was draining such large quantities of magical energy, even the mystery inside her body having consumed the supplement couldn’t handle the magical energy demanded.

Noble Phantasm.

Berserker must have been driven into a corner so dire that she needed to use her trump card. Her Noble Phantasm maybe one of the lower ranks, but the amount of magical energy necessary for the activation for an Anti-Army Noble Phantasm that could affect up to one hundred people, minus the support from the Grail, is more than the Doctor's already drained body could handle.

With her body crying for release and sweat staining her forehead from the effort to make the smallest movements, she managed to unholster the revolver and aimed its barrel directly in front of her. She didn’t have enough magical energy to include any attachments, so the shot would ring throughout the neighborhood and tear the residents from their slumber. Panicked, they'll take to their blue screens to call law enforcement. The Doctor just hoped Berserker had enough sense to carry her to their safe house before the police arrived. She struggled to smile, preparing enough magical energy to take the shot.

"Ahh —” she coughed.

A sharp phantom pain stabbed her chest. This wasn’t a hallucination due to the excessive depletion of Od from one's body. The magus was the one who created the telepathic channel between magus and familiar. The most advanced function is sharing each other's senses. The sensation she experienced was from the second path the Grail draws when it ties the fate of the Master to the Servant, delivering each party a better sense of each other's status. While a first-class bounded field can easily shut off a telepathic link, cutting this secondary path is the equivalent of an external force cutting off a Servant's magical energy supply. That path told her something had to be done, or Berserker’s life would be in danger. Easier said than done. The Doctor was injured, exhausted, and most importantly, off-balance.

She stumbled.

She tightened her grip on the weapon in defiance of her failing body.

How many times had she been in a similar situation, on dunes, on an outcropping, on the open sea?

How many times did the faces of those who left her behind appear, telling her that ignorance was her sin? 

How many times did she vow that this was not the path she chose based on her sins, but that she would carry them on this path?

_Even if your parents abandon you, I won't. I'll never give up on you._

Good people die senselessly. Innocent children die meaninglessly.

This was something the Doctor and Berserker agreed on.

— I don't like that.

Her body, drained until it yelled for a black oblivion, managed to muster enough magical energy to fill the revolver — she squeezed the trigger.

Everything shattered and her world went white.

*****

The Doctor woke up in an unfamiliar room with familiar decor. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the cold fluorescent light only to be greeted with the faded murals on the cream-colored wall. Nonsense caricatures of dinosaurs with thermometers in their mouth and too-friendly clowns that had cartoonish inflammations around a thumb or a joint were painted in warm colors. To her left was a child-sized bed.

"Berserker. . . water. . .” she managed to croak.

She turned to the side to find her Servant at the sink, filling a glass, examining the turbidity, and then offering it to her Master. The Doctor managed to sit up and thank Berserker before taking a sip. The water coated her dry mouth and ran down her throat. By the time she took a larger gulp, she began to feel the ache of her damaged body — bearable, you've been through worse, you've seen worse, you've healed worse.

"Berserker, where are we?"

Berserker took the glass away from her Master and proceeded to push her head onto the pillow.

"A suburban side street is the furthest away from an operable location as one may find. This medicine cabinet may be missing essentials, but at the least, a first aid kit is present."

A school? The Doctor recalled an elementary school in the vicinity. They must be in the school nurse's office. The Doctor didn't want to know how Berserker broke into the school without setting off any alarms. She was just thankful they weren’t in a jail cell or worse.

A famous line of her Servant's that survived the century is that ‘Nursing is the act of utilizing the environment of the patient to assist in her recovery.’ That is to say, the barriers of healing must be removed if the patient is to make a speedy recovery. On first impression, Berserker seems pushy, brash, and unintelligible, but the core of her nursing and her Saint Graph is that Nightingale does not heal, she creates an environment that is the optimal place so a patient can heal — that was the core of the Noble Phantasm the Nurse of Steel was about to unleash.

"What happened in that bounded field, Berserker?"

The Doctor had asked Berserker to find and then tail the seventh Master, a local girl. No matter what Berserker's relationship with Assassin might lead to, Assassin's Master was a child forced to fight in the Grail War. As a licensed, somewhat practicing pediatrician, the Doctor could not let her continue, no matter the child's wish.

The Doctor had Berserker guard the local high school's entrance this morning. The girl never arrived. They tried again after school and picked up her scent — the girl was actively leaking magical energy. The only danger was Assassin sensing Berserker, but considering Assassin was weighed down with the Personal Skill Powerless Shell, the Doctor hazarded her magical energy sensing ability was less than competent.

From there, Berserker and the Doctor sought an opportunity to release the girl from her contract. Assassin, the weakest Servant in the war, was both a target and disposable. After getting the two alone, Berserker would defeat Assassin, and the girl would be taken under the protection of the government agency that the Doctor was affiliated with. Her first choice was to drop the girl off with the overseer, but her handlers had given her conflicting information about the Church. After parsing through the information with a critical eye, it sounded as though the Holy Church was going through an internal power struggle with repercussions that affected even this Holy Grail War.

Berserker was about to engage the pair when Nadine became caught up in a bounded field. Foolish girl — if your Servant is already in spirit form, cut off the magical energy supply. . . is what the Doctor wanted to shout in a pillow, but that would be hypocritical. She, herself, was nothing more than a third-rate spellcaster at best, someone, almost worth less than an initiate in the world of magecraft. 

On the Doctor's orders, Berserker immediately materialized a bed, the same one the Doctor was laying on and proceeded to break into the bounded field to confront Caster. In their mind, only Caster could make such a complex bounded field. What they found was a vampire attempting to drink the girl's blood.

"Vampirism. . . is a terrifying disease of the mind. It renders a delirious patient unable to consider the very person in front of them. Reminder to calculate the possible societal cost of a provincial epidemic of vampirism. Use the same set of assumptions to create a forecast on the strain to public health resources in urban centers," Berserker muttered, unable to recognize the person in front of her.

The Doctor took this opportunity to seat herself back up, but Berserker pushed her back down while still muttering to herself and nodding deeply at intervals.

A vampire taking part in the Holy Grail War was not unheard of. The first report she had read about the topic, the one closest to her heart, detailed a vampire who made the art-museum-shaped-hospital she worked in into his lair — taking her patient hostage. She pushed those memories back into her heart. The Doctor didn't know too much about Dead Apostles, but a Servant shouldn't have too much trouble against them unless it was a Dead Apostle Ancestor. Unless like the vampire who terrorized her hometown. . . .

"Berserker, was the vampire a Master? Did a Servant materialize? "

Berserker stopped muttering to herself and turned to face her Master. For the first time this night, she looked the Doctor directly in her stern, heavy eyes.

"There was no Servant."

Berserker's measured tone was one used for reporting something mildly unacceptable to a superior officer. The Doctor immediately understood that Berserker thought of this Dead Apostle as a threatening patient. The Doctor couldn’t make sense of it in her head. What sort of Dead Apostle could fight equally with a Servant, without any help?

"What happened after I fainted?"

"It retreated."

Of course. The Doctor's revolver is a one-of-a-kind limited action Mystic Code. Fired bullets were capable of draining the magical energy from bounded fields among other things. The more complex the bounded field one holds together, the greater the rebound to one's magic circuits from having it broken. Furthermore, Dead Apostles pride themselves in being the greatest erectors of bounded fields — some are capable of even fooling nature to create otherworlds. To have its bounded field broken twice? In a single night? They say a Dead Apostle's grudge is as persistent as the curse from signing a Self-Geis Scroll. The Doctor doesn't know what a Self-Geis scroll is but if it's half as bad as her Comcast contract, then — 

But that wasn't the issue at hand.

"The longer that girl remains a Master, the greater the danger she'll be in. Tonight shouldn't have happened. Berserker."

"Doctor?"

"Tomorrow, we kill Assassin."

"Affirmative, I'll set an appointment."

In an elementary school nurse's office with bloodied bandages lining the floor, the pair who both pledged to ‘first, do no harm’ a century apart planned to draw the first meaningful blood in this conflict. All to save a single seventeen year old girl.

**~Interlude Out~**


	13. 12/ Rested Laurels

**12/ Rested Laurels**

A kindly old man I've talked to at the park a few times is in the driver’s seat. Wispy white hair brushing against his forehead comes out from underneath his beanie. The rest of him is swaddled within two layers of jackets. Winters in Tolosa aren't cold enough to seriously consider layering. He hasn't turned on the car heater, either.

"I've never told you this before champ, but I'm a magician," he says with both hands diligently on the wheel, waiting for the arrow to turn green.

With my mind still reeling from a vampire attack of all things, his words don't evoke much emotion.

"You mean you're a mag-us. . . may-gus. . . ." What was that funny-sounding word that the bowl-cut priest used again, "Whatever, a mage?"

We pull into the UPS parking lot and he puts the car into park.

"Donut and a warm beverage?"

The parking lot outside the UPS is usually packed this time of night. No one's here to purchase stamps this close to midnight; the famous local donut store next door is open twenty-four hours a day. The decor is visibly more hipster than a roadside diner-style cafe to the point they host struggling musicians who are on the verge of ‘making it.’

"Don't worry about her, champ. They're tough, they are, Ghost Liners. She might be silent right now, but she should be healing with your magical energy."

I thank him and take the paper cup filled with warm apple cider from his wrinkled hands. The apple cider at Tolosa's Donut Company is just Costco apple juice mixed with mulled spices with a three-dollar price tag, but it never fails to warm me up to the point I sincerely confess that it was worth three measly dollars.

"But, are you okay, Nadine?"

Laurent almost ran me over. I was running away from the vampire and forgot to look around the corner before I crossed the street. Luckily, Laurent said, he had a garage on Tank Farm check his brakes last month.

"Who. . . are you, really?"

"Not bad, always been meaning to try this out." He takes a sip of his Thai iced tea before starting to answer my question. "Retirement's all about taking it easy, but there's been some strange leyline activity the past couple of days. Decided to start redrawing some maps when the signal went haywire." He shrugs. "If there's someone in Tolosa who can make a bounded field like that, I want to know."

He went on to explain that when his daughter inherited the family business, he felt like it was time to move to the ‘Best Coast’ instead of Florida. I'm not sure his story made sense. From what the bowl-cut priest had told me yesterday, these mages seemed like they should be stricter than this nice old man. None of this applies to me anymore.

"Thanks for the cider, but I'm going to go to the church and forfeit tomorrow. That was insane; I almost died. I don't want to be involved in something like this anymore, you know."

Laurent's eyes grow slightly concerned, "I think that's a wise decision, Nadine. This event isn't worth risking your life, especially for someone so young.” 

What does he know about this?

“I can see that you have a few questions, though. I'll be happy to answer them."

Mary's leaving tomorrow. I have nothing to do with that world, so there's no point in asking. . . My hands go onto the wooden table that seems like it was bought in a garage sale. There are six donut holes left, so I take two. They don't go with the cider at all. But donut holes. Whatever, I'll bite.

"You seem to know about the Holy Grail War. Are you a Master?"

He rolls up his sleeves and shows the front and back of his arms. There's nothing but irregular hairs, saggy skin, and brown blotches.

"Now look at your own, champ."

Don’t patronize me, dude. I know that on the back of my left hand is a Command Spell — a fat rod with squiggles coming from the edges. Each squiggle has a thin circle in the middle. The gaping maw of a black sun or a portal to a better world. 

"Command Spells react to other Command Spells," he explains. "Did you feel anything from your Command Spell when I picked you up?"

Mid-head shake, I want to ask him whether all mages know this much about the Holy Grail War. Whether the Holy Grail War is a big deal in their world, like the Olympics. But no one watches the Olympics anymore. Disappointing reference. Instead, I ask the obvious.

"That person who attacked me. . . Do vampires really exist?"

"A vampire in the Holy Grail War?" He sounds slightly apprehensive. "Well, that wouldn't be the first time."

He goes on to explain that supernatural creatures do exist in the world living in pristine locales or within the cracks of society. It goes without saying that you can only see these beings at night time. For that reason, I've decided to name this world I've stepped into the ‘Moonlit World.’ Poetic license, kill me. Either way, Laurent focuses on vampires, how they're created, the various stages of their evolution, and finally what they consume and why. It all sounds rather reasonable, up to the last part.

"Mature red blood cells don't have DNA. We learned that in AP Bio."

He tilts his head.

I type in the question on my phone and show him the result.

"Well, it says right here that the DNA from blood comes from white blood cells. Vampires still obtain genetic information from blood, just not from the red blood cells," he points to a line in the Wikipedia article.

"Still, it's ridiculous to think that having sex with someone would lower the purity of one's blood and cells. If anything, KFC would deteriorate the quality of one's blood more than sex. This sex thing sounds like a gross, fictitious misapplication of the perceived dangers of HIV when it was an unmanageable disease. . . Do vampires get AIDS?"

"I wouldn't think so. Vampires have been around much longer than the AIDS virus as we know today. Either way, HIV attacks the immune system, vampire bodies are already dead. More importantly, vampires often use animal carcasses to restore their bodies. If viral cross-species transmission was a problem among bloodsuckers, I don't think there would be one attacking you."

It sounds right, but just because something sounds right since an important person tells you that it is or it corresponds to one's priors doesn't necessarily mean it's right. I'm not sure why having sex with someone would reduce the ‘purity’ of your genetic information, but there's way too much wiggle room here about a topic I was just introduced to argue back. 

To use an example, Laurent had told me that the older the vampire, the more energy that's necessary to maintain its existence. Forgot my phone when I went to the toilet a few weeks ago; only reading material was a copy of my brother's Men Health, so I flipped through it, kill me. There was one article about the idea of how as the body ages it becomes less efficient at processing protein due to a steady decrease in mucus, digestive enzymes, and stomach acid. I believe the title was ‘Steady Gains Even Into Your Golden Years,’ — god my brother is such a douchebag. Anyway, the idea that vampires require more energy as they grow older seems to adhere to this principle you read in a magazine for guys who can’t get it up, so you believe it. 

People. . . people see the connection when they want to see connections and are incredulous when other people can't follow the same connections. Those assuring connections between the mosaic of facts make your world all the more understandable — all the more purposeful. How stupid. Since you’re the one doing the connecting, you believe that it has to be real, because you’re the one who put it all together. If you could put it together then it should be obvious to everyone else. But what you don’t realize is that there are billions of facts, billions of people, therefore an infinite amount of possible connections. How impertinent you must be to believe another person could possibly trace the same connection you’ve made. How dare you believe the connection you’ve made is the right one? 

"When the vampire grabbed me, its eyes were red and I couldn't move. But then my heart stopped and I could move again. What was that about?"

Laurent takes a napkin to wipe the condensation from his hand. It seems there was only ice chips left in the cup. 

"That's two questions." He folds his used napkin into two instead of crumpling it into a ball. "Vampires hypnotizing people is a pretty common thing in movies, no?"

"Like in the original Dracula movie, victims would be enthralled and he could talk to them telepathically."

"I was thinking more Hotel Transylvania, but whatever floats your boat, champ. Strong vampires have Mystic Eyes. You've heard that Medusa's gaze could turn people to stone? Well, legends with mystical eyes that are common throughout the world."

"Do those have anything to do with the 'the eyes that see into the world?'"

"'Eyes that see into the world?' That's an uncommon phrase even among magi, I wouldn't expect a high schooler to have heard that term. Where did you hear it?"

"The overseer for this war told me that I might have them."

"From a man of the cloth? Even more peculiar. You could say it means he has great expectations for you. The first and greatest magecraft was the ability to see. Witch doctors and wise women in the distant past were useless if they couldn't preempt tragedy, be it natural or man-made. In a sense, the greatest power in this world is knowledge, the ability to grasp the true nature of phenomena. Saying someone has 'eyes that see into the world' is a more specific way of telling them they have the senses required to grasp the subtleties of the world. It isn't a magical sixth sense, but a unique gift. One might even call those with such a gift a 'Magician's Egg.'"

"Like one of those trick eggs you can buy at a magic store that has a hole for a scarf?"

He looks at me for a moment. "You can buy those? Don't need to answer." He takes a sip from his drink before remembering there's only ice left. "Rather than an egg that a magician owns, a Magician's Egg refers to someone primed to become a magician. As in that person will hatch into a magician."

"What's the difference between a magician and a mage? Is there even a difference?"

"There are only five magics left in the world and four magicians. Each magic makes something impossible in the modern era happen. I can go on if you want."

"And you're one of these magicians?"

"Sorry, champ. I was being facetious. In this field, a lot of time it's easier to advertise yourself as a magician."

I finish my apple cider and gaze off slightly to the distance. This donut shop is open twenty-four hours so there are quite a few people here. I recognize some of them from the party. I guess people are filing in trying to sober up with doughnuts. The typical aftermath of a Tolosa party. . . I presume. . . . 

"If I'm a Magician's Egg, then I could become one of these four people?"

"If it were truly that simple, there would be more than four magicians. But talent can appear in the most unexpected places. Then again what's more unexpected than a magician appearing in Tolosa?"

"So, it's whatever. What about the second part of my question."

"Right, let's pivot to that. People who can use magecraft have a magic circuit. Or rather, it's the other way around, unless you have a magic circuit you can't use magecraft."

"The overseer said that a magic circuit was the potential to be a mage, and therefore a Master."

"It's usually something that's built through one's pedigree, but there are cases where people without the lineage will be born with a magic circuit. However, you won't notice you have one until it opens. Yours probably opened the moment you summoned your Servant. Once the circuit is established the next step is to build a mental switch. Like a light switch that turns the circuit on and off."

My heart stopped and it felt as though molten rods pierced my entire body. That pain was beyond the release from any sort of self-mutilation that the middle-school girls who act like they're always sad will drone on about in the bathroom for attention. This is the child of two incompatible systems, a refrigerator that can simultaneously cool yet also cooks the food inside of it. The more of the feeling that is produced, the more the contradiction yearns to correct itself by wiping out what it means to be a person, leaving the body as nothing more than a machine that produces that feeling.

"You can imagine magical energy as a type of energy-rich liquid that's gushing through these fantastical pipes known as magic circuits."

"Like gas. So then magecraft would be igniting the gas."

"But unlike petrol, you can douse someone else's magical energy with your magical energy. The vampire's Mystic Eyes placed a spell, a magical construct created with that energy, within your body. By turning on your magic circuit, you were able to wash it away, allowing you to move."

"If I were to learn magecraft, then I would be able to protect myself against vampires?"

He shakes his head. "It takes longer than two weeks to learn enough about magecraft to use it against another person. Magecraft is something built through generations. In your case, it would be better to leave the fighting to your Servant."

Like running a family farm. No matter the amount of resources one can bring in, a bougie hipster from a gentrified neighborhood in the Bay Area who decides it's time to go natural for reals unlike those posers who just shop at ‘Whole Paycheck’ to keep up appearances will never be able to run a farm better than a farmer whose family has worked the land for generations. No matter how talented or forward-thinking this hypothetical hipster might be, she starts at zero. Are you going to take on the full cost of the equipment, how do you know what you bought is the right equipment, when are you going to plant certain crops, what crops do well in this soil in these conditions, do you even know the condition of the soil, are you going to diversify your farm, what co-op or organization should you join, what's the best way to claim the maximum amount of government benefits. The only way to compete would be to hire experienced farmers which just highlight the importance of experience and pedigree. I don't come from a farming family, but this is what the country kids who do FFA talk about during lunch, so I can imagine learning magecraft is somewhat similar in principle.

A soft buzz, a pause, and then another buzz, a text message. I pick up my face-down phone from the table and it turns out to be an Instagram notification about Krista. She took a selfie you could find on any high-school girl's newly public account. Off-Tinder-Cinder-Krista, sucking in her stomach, right in the middle with her Prince Charming in a crowd of drunk teenagers who have all have already liked the picture, with the sophisticated, cosmopolitan caption of — Donut emoji, clock emoji, heart emoji, #first party #newfriends #litaf #blessed.

My eyes are hot. For god's sake you stupid bitch, calm down already. You don't want to break down in front of an old man. I quickly comment, ‘already here,’ before I can type something that I'll really regret and press send.

"Your friends coming to pick you up, champ?"

I nod, forcing the faucet to leak inside.

"I should be on my way then. Wouldn't want you losing your cred because your friends saw you hanging out with an uncool geezer."

You're. . . actually pretty cool. I want to say that but I can't find my voice.

"Before I go, I thought I would ask you, Nadine. Who do you want to be?"

"I —”

I don't think anyone really knows who they want to be. Instead, we chase the hollow ideal of being special. No one is special, yet at the same time we try so hard to make someone else feel special so they will meet our expectations and tell us we're special. . . . We cling onto that feeling of specialness in someone else's eyes because it's undeniable 'proof" that we live in a #blessed world rather than a shithole.

Two days ago, I thought that Krista was truly special to me and vice-versa, but that can't be true. All the threads in that self-gorging social web localized in that suburban party are self-serving, superficial, momentary relationships — transactions that merely give and take without a speck of understanding. It's the need to be part of a group to be acknowledged and the price paid is to acknowledge others. Gross. Disgusting. There's nothing genuine in that. But… if those connections are so superficial, so easy to make, what's wrong with me? If these eyes see into the world, why have I never even made a slipshod connection with another person other than Krista? So then, if it's something that everyone can do, but I can't. . . aren't I the problem?

'Who do I want to be?’

I don't know. I don't think the question matters. If everyone else can ███, then anyone else will do.

"I think I'm going to stay with this Grail thing," I tell Laurent.

Laurent scribbles something down on the last remaining dry napkin and hands it to me.

"My number," he smiles faintly. "Good luck, champ. You're going to need it," and leaves. 

"What happened tonight is going to happen again, are you okay with that?" Mary's weak voice comes from the space in the seat beside me. She must have just woke up. 

"Does life honestly have that much value when we live in _this_ world?"

"That doesn't answer the question."

"Does it matter if it answers the question when I answered the question you truly wanted to ask?"

In return, I'll reject the world that rejected me. Instead, I'll turn to a new world that found me. Terrifying as it is, at least it hasn't rejected me, only shown me what was possible. I've been told that I have magic circuits, eyes that can see into the world, and am about to hatch into a magician.

I will reject everything to become someone I accept.

Someone beyond Nadine Craig. Someone not Nadine Craig.

Tonight, I resolve to be this to the end.


	14. 13/ Grace Note (I)

**13/ Grace Note (I)**

A vampire lurks in Tolosa. 

After dinner, I snuck out of the Mission and started patrolling downtown. Eventually, I made my way to the men’s colony, but there were no signs of the Dead. On my way back, I made a detour into the college. If the vampire did come from the men’s colony, Pitch Canyon Village would be an obvious stop. Behind the student dorms is one of the Seven Sisters and the foci of the leylines in Northern Tolosa. Not to mention there’s a nook in the mountain where undergraduate architecture projects go to die that can be used as a lair. All dowsing with Black Keys could find was the same type of tree as yesterday. 

This time instead of greed built on usurpation, it was envy built on exile that I should not forget. I vomited. Once again, my magically fortified mental defenses were shred like paper. These trees must be cursed, yet the magical energy radiating from those trees was almost noble. 

I clamber through the window back into my room around ten and head straight for the bathroom. Controlling bodily functions is the first step in Executor training. The classic example we’re taught is that basic Japanese mountain ascetics training requires a person to go without sleep, food, or water for three days and nights. For us, it’s about using magical energy (even if the Church doesn’t like to admit that) to forcibly switch certain functions on and off while reinforcing the parts that might be under strain. With that in mind, Sunao-sensei says on arrival to a safe house, you must make sure the location is not compromised and then go to the bathroom — one expense that the Church does not skimp on. 

After washing my hands for twenty seconds, I start my homework. The homework assigned on Monday is always due on Wednesday, so it was time to go over Math notes and then do the assigned problems. Dilo’s letter can wait until tomorrow. It’s probably nothing more than empty words wishing me the best of luck for the next two weeks. Overseeing the Holy Grail War might be important, but a vampire killed my family. If learning this town’s protocols and systems have been to better oversee the Grail War, then all the physical training in the mountain behind the Mission has been to fight the supernatural threat known as a Dead Apostle. Cliche as it might be, I chose to become part of the Church because of my thirst for vengeance. 

All the math problems are solved in thirty minutes. The next thirty were spent reviewing Monday’s lesson and previewing tomorrow’s topic. That makes the school recommended hour. Got to stifle this yawn with a mouthful of water because I still must start my physics homework. The problems are mostly plug-and-chug so the homework is going to take less than thirty minutes which gives me more time to preview tomorrow’s lesson. Okay, my notebook is starting to look like bubble wrap so just forty more minutes and you can go to sleep, Chris. For now, let’s start characterizing these wavefunctions.

*****

I imagined that I would see that scene again, the one that manifested when I touched that tree. That walled city was drenched in the fire and blood of self-inflicted sabotage. In one corner of the canvas of savagery and rape, on top of an overturned vegetable cart was a great spearman, breaker of horses, roaring at the crying man underneath him to leave, to run away, to save himself. That even if he was the enemy, to kill him was to kill a nation. He did not deserve to become mere a bloodstain on this hell.

What I’m seeing is nothing like the image that made me vomit half-digested salmon cooked in mushroom-infused butter. This is not my memory. This is not even my memory of a memory. This is the recent memory of a girl that I have never met about a train I’ve never ridden. This memory must have bubbled to the interface of a half-consciousness when it beheld the light that shines at the end of the world. This is not my memory so I cannot interrupt. This is not my memory so I have no idea about the thoughts of the two in front of me. After all, people are slaves to what they can see. 

So please enjoy the translated exchange between the ashen girl and the crafted? boy.

*****

“Well, if we are limiting the possibilities to something functionally human then there are two kinds of foresight and hindsight: predictive and determinative. Prediction is as the name suggests. We're capable of it, too. Imagine putting a ball on a slope. We know the ball is going to roll down, right? Prediction is an extension of this basic principle. Humans who can predict the future require an absurd amount of memory and computational power to bring this phenomenon to bear. Being conscious of these processes would likely damage one's personality so prediction is done unconsciously.”

"Ummm... in other words, it's just like how we generally use our imaginations?"

"In theory, but, the amount of memory and calculations done unconsciously greatly surpass what is possible for a person. After all, we’re optimized products of evolution. Despite magi being those who direct themselves towards the past, our bodies are those of modern humans. No matter how consistent the logic may be as long, the amount of memory and computational power that’s required surpasses what’s possible for humans, this ability can't be anything but abnormal. 

For example, we are only taking in an approximate ‘impression’ of this locale: three names and our appearances, a luxurious private room, the bed and table periodically moving with the train. This gives us a rough sketch of where we are and what is happening. For someone who can predict the future, they take the minute color of the light, the intonation of each sound in a voice, the movement of a pupil every tenth of a second, on top of all that shifts in body odor as well as the density of the fog outside the window. The human and environment intermingle to compute a single world. Doing all that unconsciously, it might even burn the brain."

"Memory... and calculation… But, isn't that more the brain than the eyes?"

"It depends. From a magical perspective, the eyeball acts like a type of magic circuit. This is what memorizes and calculates. Moreover, determination is even more abnormal. It requires the same memory and computational power, but whereas prediction is a passive and defensive ability, determination is proactive. You can almost think of it as an assault."

"Proactive?"

"Ehhh — proactive in that it’s an abnormal ability that influences the future. In short..."

"What is that?"

"A schematic of time. It's easy to understand the future is expanding in multiple ways. Like I said before, predictive foresight stores the data of the past to the present and calculates the most probable future. On the other hand, determinative foresight seeks to choose a possible future. By choosing a route, you restrict the choices for other people. 

Because of the difference, in theory, the accuracy of determinative foresight greatly surpasses that of predictive. According to the aforementioned systems, you predict nothing but the future of the place where you are located. In contrast, the future is fixed once it’s determined. The effect of limiting the future is that decisive.” 

"I get it… somehow. Is it the same with hindsight?"

"Yes. But, unlike foresight, with hindsight, there is barely a difference between prediction and determination. Even the user themselves shouldn't really be able to make the distinction."

"Really?"

"Let's draw it out, shall we? If the future is something that infinitely expands, the past would be like a mountain of sand. 

Grain by grain it falls from the future to the present, until finally making a mountain like this figure. It's quite easy to understand, like entropy in a three-dimensional space, the time has a direction. 

Whether I synthesize a result to predict the past or I use my own actions as a starting point to determine the past, the process does not change. Using my own actions as a starting point though will make the measurements narrower, increasing the accuracy. 

However, there is some modern magecraft and quantum theory that suggests that we cannot actually see the past, that even the past is actually unsettled. What we think of as the past is nothing more than memories or records. . . Sorry, I haven't finished the class." 

With that admission, the scene crashes into the shore, spraying cold jets of ocean foam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 – End


	15. 14/ Maestro

**14/ Maestro**

“So, that’s everything your Professor asked me to go over today. She told me to spend the last ten minutes on my research and wanted to let you know whatever’s on my slides will be on the midterm since, apparently, there are a few of you who like to leave lecture early. So okay, as you can see here my research is on leitmotifs. Does anyone know what a leitmotif is?”

The crickets couldn’t be here today. They were too busy singing in summer so they starved to death. 

“No one, really? How many music majors in this class? Seriously, no one? So, then I’ve got to assume you’re all engineering and computer science taking this as a GE for the GPA boost? Anyone? You with the snap-back on backwards, engineering or comp science? Mechanical? Well, good luck with that at this school, sir. You ever play Pokemon? Yeah? What’s the music that plays every time you enter a battle? What, you only played Pokemon GO when it was popular? Okay, but Pokemon GO has music; there’s probably an OST you can buy on iTunes, Apple Music, or whatever it’s called now. No one plays Pokemon GO with the music on? Fine, fine, fair enough. Does anyone here like Star Wars? Yeah, quite a lot of you. Expected as much from a bunch of engineers and brogrammers. Name one song from Star Wars, just one song, any song. Oh, you don’t remember the name but you can hum it. Okay, I won’t embarrass you by making you hum it in front of the class but does it go something like duh duh duh DUN DA DUN, DUN DA DUN. . . Who comes to mind when you think of that? Darth Vader, Anakin Skywalker, right? Come on, what do you mean, spoilers? Well, that’s a leitmotif. A leitmotif, or leading motive, is a complete musical thought that relates to a person, situation, or thing. Whenever you hear that music, you immediately associate it with Darth Vader. By the way, that track is called the Imperial March if you already didn’t know. The most famous leitmotif in film is probably the theme for the shark in Jaws. Right, the moment I said that it started playing in your head. That’s the associative power of a leitmotif. A lot of people say the leitmotif was created by Richard Wagner. Brilliant composer; terrible person. However, musical ideas have been associated with character, setting, and objects much earlier than Wagner. Wagner was the one who popularized it and took it to the next level, especially in his Ring Cycle. Anyone here seen the Director’s Cut for all of the Lord of the Rings movies? Yeah, this is longer than that. You know when you think of opera you think of a large lady with a helmet with wings? You can thank Wagner for that. And it’s not ‘Wag-ner,’ it’s a long ‘wa’ sound. I’m German. I was born in a little village next to the Rhine if you couldn’t tell from my accent. Then again, people always tell me that my accent’s mostly gone. Anyway, I’m more of a leitmotif Indiana Jones on good days and a leitmotif librarian on bad ones. There are some who call them musical calling cards or even a musical fingerprint. Part of my research is to collect and catalog these fingerprints, but it’s more focused on identifying what makes a certain musical idea a leitmotif. Some of these are, of course, simple to identify, especially in video games like the Legend of Zelda secret chime or the Final Fantasy battle theme. Some tracks are entirely made of multiple motifs. What I try to do is determine why the motif was placed there, how does that add significance to the scene or work, and how is that musical idea held in the minds of the audience. That’s the psychological side of it. There’s also the musical theory, the construction of the motif and how/why it evokes a certain scene or idea that permanently stains the consciousness. Looking at the leitmotif from both these approaches, we can hope to understand why some succeed and others fail. This is very important for movie composers, considering the leitmotif is such a popular technique. Film scores are almost wholly Wagnerian these days. A little assignment for those interested — Marvel movie marathon, but instead of watching, you should all listen to those Marvel movies, you’ll be surprised at what you pick up. Well, there’s five minutes left, so I’m going to let you go early. Ummm, Mich — I mean Dr. Strum wanted me to remind you to do the reading quiz for next week. The pages for that reading should be on your syllabus. Thanks, everyone. Oh yeah, and you, girl in the back row with a blue jacket, come see me after class okay?”

*****

“We should get out of here.”

Fuck. Everyone else sitting in this row is waiting for me to leave. You would think that once you get into college you would upgrade to bigger desks, but what the hell are these weak plastic chairs with foldable tables. 

“What do you mean we should get out of here, dearie. He just asked to talk to you.”

How does a guest lecturer know I’m not actually taking this class? 

“God, I knew this was a terrible idea.” 

Now the impatient eyes from everyone in this half of the row bore into me, judging me for talking to myself. If they knew the truth, they’d probably judge me harder.

“Catch yerself, girl. If he is actually suspicious there’s no point running; he’ll just alert the peelers around campus to be on the lookout for a girl fitting your description. He hasn’t even told you what he wants yet. Hear the man out, will you?” 

From our two days together, I can tell you that Mary says everything with an adamant tone. Then, what is she recalling if there’s this layer of emotion smothering that tone? Whatever, you do you, Mary. I have to at least get out of my seat. Up you get, Nadine. 

Urgh, my jacket gets caught in the folded table as I try to get out. Someone coughs. Every neuron in my brain screams at me not to turn my head, but I do it anyway. It must be some stupid conditioning humans have that whenever someone fake-coughs to judge the fuck out of you, well you hand them your attention on a platter. 

“Sorry about that,” I smile while fiddling furiously with my jacket. “Though, I have no idea why you’re all in so much of a hurry to eat lunch alone.” 

With my heart racing from adrenaline and shame, I storm out of the lecture hall.

*****

“Girl, you need to get your arse back there, right now.”

I stop at one of the outdoor tables outside the campus market and bury my face in my arms. Wow, that was stupid. Wow, you’re really stupid, Nadine. 

“Girl, if you’re not going back, I suggest we get out of here as soon as possible.” 

“Just… just let me think, okay, Mary?” 

She no longer says a word, but I can feel the same annoyed silent aura my mom has whenever I’m around. It’s just worse because it’s not something that I think is there, I can actually feel it from our Master-Servant line, or whatever it’s called. 

After what happened yesterday, there was no way that I wanted to go to school. For one, I don’t fit in with high-schoolers and I almost had my neck torn out by a fucking vampire. I was going to march up to that priest today and tell him that this was too much for me, but I can’t do that to Mary — I’m all that she’s got. 

Mary was pretty excited about the college yesterday. After what happened last night, I thought I’d do her a favor. God, was that really yesterday morning? Feels like two weeks ago. I want Mary to have a good time. I’m a good Master. This is not just because I don’t want to go to school. 

We ended up stumbling into a lecture hall a quarter of the way into a class that introduced music theory. Half the class was on their laptops and of the half that didn’t have laptops, a quarter were on their phones. The girl below me was shopping for handbags and there were three guys around her watching basketball highlights. I see, so this is how people discover themselves. Usually, I would take a photo and share it with Krista on my private Instagram, but she has better friends now and all I’ve got is a ghost.

“How do you mean?” She sounded breathless. “It’s truly amazing that even in this hall of learning, you’re still connected with the outside world. Knowledge is not only something shared peer-to-peer, but those very ideas can be easily challenged and discussed with others in similar institutes. With such lines of informative communication in place, it is impossible to be isolated, to feel alone. There’s always someone to reach out to. How wonderful.”

Is it honestly better to be so caught up in an imaginary world that your head’s up your ass than to live in the moment, grounded in our shared objective reality? Hey, I might sound like an old person, but that’s what’s cool about old people — they appreciate the time they have left and the people around them. 

“Girl, stop moping about and get up,” Mary sounds worried and I turn to face her, even though I know I won’t be able to see her.

Instead, the dude who was lecturing stands over me. His sweater sleeves have been pretentiously rolled up so they rest slightly higher than the middle of his forearm, giving off the Californian business casual look that every one of mom’s young male clients want to exude. One hand is on his hip so that he’s bent in a way that makes him look slightly concerned about me in a completely non-threatening manner. 

“Ummm, hi. You kind of ran off after the lecture.” He takes his hand off his hip and scratches his nose. “You’re a Master, aren’t you?” 

The air around us pressurizes as if something that no one can see and only we can feel is gathering. That must be what old man Laurent calls magical energy, which would mean. . . 

“Don’t,” I call out to Mary. There are too many people here. Having a woman in 19th-century cook’s clothes pop out of the air would just lead to chaos. The pressure disperses. 

“Thanks for that. I just want to have a chat, no strings attached. Do you two want to come to my office? We shouldn’t be talking about this stuff out here.”

*****

“Here, have a seat.” He motioned to a black plastic chair behind his desk. “Visiting scholar, I just moved in last week, so there isn’t much furniture. You guys want some kettle corn? Just popped it this morning.”

If he was my mom’s client, she would say something vomit-inducingly encouraging like, “It might be intimidating, starting with an empty room, but you have to remember you can fill an empty room with whatever you want. What’s better than that?” Other than what seems to be a standard-issue desktop computer, there’s a popcorn tin next to the computer, an office trash can behind his chair, a stack of papers, and a tissue box in the right corner of the desk. 

I open my mouth to say something before he interrupts me with an apology as his hand goes to the left side of the desk. 

Oh, I didn’t notice that when I was looking around the office. It’s an ornate box, the size of two laptop charger blocks stacked on top of each other; the brushed brass corners are slightly faded and the wood is rather worn. Honestly, I have no idea how I missed that when I came in. It’s almost like my eyes themselves couldn’t help avoiding that region of the table. As if my eyes kept telling my brain, ‘that’s just a table’ over and over again. 

“There we go. No one should be able to hear our conversation anymore,” he says after lifting the lid. In the middle of the box is a small figurine carved from bone. My mother bought me a music box for my birthday once that had a secret compartment where you could hide some make-up or polaroids. The centerpiece was a dainty ballerina eternally pirouetting, lost in the music being played. This music box has a conductor, mechanically waving his little baton along with the piece of classical music that starts to leak out, saturating the room. “You’re more than welcome to materialize. . . Mary, was it?” 

Mary pops into existence with a meat cleaver angled towards the man’s face. I’ve never seen a knife that sharp in a Cooking Channel infomercial. The edge reflects all of the artificial light in this room. It’s a clear threat. I would have been taken aback if I hadn’t already felt Mary’s seething murderous intent the moment he said her name. There should only be three people other than myself who know Mary by name. That priest, Rider, and Archer. Logically, the most obvious answer would be that he was Archer’s Master, but we’ve already seen Archer’s Master, a girl who didn’t look human, at the stadium.

“Who are you?” Mary barks. 

The blade on the knife is so sharp that simply touching his neck would draw blood. Look away Nadine, but you can’t. This is the life you’ve chosen. The initiation to become someone who isn’t you. If threatening people in their own offices in a college I don’t even attend is the price then. . . But Mary’s not going to hurt him. . . right? There’s no way that’s going to happen since — 

His soft blue eyes twinkle telling us he’s the one in control of the situation as he kindly smiles. 

“I’m sort of like an attendant. Less of an attendant and more of a piano tuner, maybe? But honestly, I just wanted to thank you on behalf of milady.” He leans back into his chair and raises both his hands in surrender.

“Mary, I don’t think he’s lying.” 

“You don’t know the first thing about being lied to, dearie,” she says without looking at me. “It’d be a shame if they had to close this institute because of us,” and sits down in the chair next to mine. 

“Sorry about that.” I apologize in her stead. 

He seems nonplussed about having a meat cleaver thrust into his face. I guess these are the sort of people I’ll be dealing from now on. 

“No problem! I totally get it. Mary’s your Servant. My familiars would do the same.” 

Now that’s all cleared up, “So, who are you?” 

“Don’t mean to be rude, but I did part of my postdoc in Japan. They have this fun tradition there, where you introduce yourself before asking someone for their name.”

We both glare at him. “I’m Nadine and this is Mary, my Servant.” 

“Wow, great to meet you guys. Everyone calls me Rich. Thanks for helping out Archer yesterday. He’s a bit tough to handle, even for milady.” 

He takes a familiar packet of unopened batteries from his desk drawer and then pulls out a laser pointer from his pocket before beginning to replace the batteries before our eyes. 

“Is your head cut? You had a Servant buy batteries for that?” 

“Oh no ma'am, he volunteered. I’m sure you’ve already noticed, but he’s very heroic, incredibly so. That’s what makes him such a difficult hero to control. Without giving him controlled labors to overcome; well, I’m sure there would be more than a little collateral damage. That’s why we’re so thankful for the both of you. He seems to have taken a shine to you, Nadine.”

It’s kind of gross that all can you think of is ‘how swell,’ with this guy. It doesn’t help that he looks like a prince from a school play. 

“Ummm yeah, it was nothing. Archer seemed like a nice person. We had some ice-cream together. Sorry about barging into your lecture like that.” 

His eyes narrow for a second, “You don’t know you’re leaking magical energy?” 

“Magical energy. . . that’s what we make with our magic circuits.” Based on what he did with the box. “You’re a mage?” 

Without taking his eyes off me Rich reluctantly flicks his right hand to the ceiling, drawing an upbeat. “Don’t call us. . . _that_ ,” he hisses through gritted teeth. I’m not sure why but his entire demeanor changes. It almost feels as if Mary’s cleaver is pressed against both our throats.

Mary breaks the razor-edged silence, “She has already been told about her magic circuit as well as the mysteries that populate this world. If you want to harm her in any way. . .” she leaves the threat hanging over the desk. 

His eyes take in Mary’s entire being, rejecting what she just said as if there’s something fundamentally wrong with her. It doesn’t matter to him that she is a Servant. If she dares trespass on sacred ground then she must be punished. Mary meets his gaze; after all, what sort of hero would she be if she couldn’t at least do that? 

“I see — so you’re _that_ famous cook. No wonder you’re ignorant about our side of the world.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Although that term has become popular in the recent time, the correct term is ‘magus.’ It’s said that our ancestors were kings, but more importantly, before the Magecraft King, the only people who could use magecraft were priests and those related to the gods. Using any word other than magus — which has its roots in the ancient Medes, a people that claimed descent from the Witch of Treachery as a way to describe their priest social class — is disrespectful to the very foundations of this way of life.” 

“But isn’t the root of ma — I mean, that word, may. . . may-gus?” 

“That word would have been fine in the sixteenth century, but these days it’s filled with connotations relating to the fantasy genre. We are nothing like the so-called magic users in the fantasy genre. We delve into mystère to seek the truth of the world; not to throw fireballs and shards of ice at each other.” The moment he raises his hand again, his twinkling smile returns to his face. 

“Sorry, I get really passionate about that stuff. It’s the family business; after all, I’m sure you both understand.”

We both nod without thinking. 

“Like I was saying before, Nadine — you’re leaking magical energy. Anyone with active magic circuits leaks magical energy. The easiest way to stop that is to switch off your magic circuit. However, the moment the magic circuit is switched off, magical energy is no longer being supplied to the Servant.” 

“And the Servant goes into its ghost-mode.” He looks visibly in pain when I say that, but I continue since there’s something weird about his explanation. “I’ve only ever switched on my magic circuits twice, when I summoned Mary and when I was attacked last night.” 

"False," his right hand goes up once again. "Your circuits are on, even as we speak. They just aren't rotating as fast as they would in those situations. That teacher of yours should be able to teach you how to switch them off — until then you're a walking target for any participant in this Grail War."

"Rich, can vampires track magical energy?"

"Vampires? Do you mean the self-proclaimed transcendental kind that rejects the Anthropic Principle or the bloodsucking Phantasmal Species that we lump together as vampires? Well, as long as the Dead Apostle knows magecraft, they will be able to track magical energy. I’m not an expert on Dead Apostles. You should ask someone from the Church if you want to know more. That’s interesting though, you were attacked last night by a Dead Apostle, weren’t you? That explains that first-class bounded field. In the last Grail War a Dead Apostle was recorded as a Master, but could this simply be an uninvited guest trying to stave off boredom?” 

It’s the way he looks at you after that hand goes up. He’s interested solely because this Dead Apostle attacked me. It’s so different from how Laurent let me know that everything was going to be okay, explained what was happening best he could, and bought me some food. The ‘swell’ guy who offers you kettle corn when you walk into his office evaporated like he was nothing more than the most temperate mirage. 

“He wasn’t a Master or if he was a Master, he attacked us without his Servant.” Mary keeps the fact that Berserker came out of nowhere to help us and we ended up running away to herself. Is it out of pride or simply because we can’t trust this man? I still don’t understand why Berserker helped us after she attacked Mary in the stadium unless the vampire was a greater threat. “Is that everything you wanted to talk about?”

The hand drops on the downbeat, “Milady would like to offer a non-aggression pact with you, Nadine. I think that might be advantageous for both of us.” 

“You saw how weak we were and wanted to get rid of us immediately, but Archer refused didn’t he? It would besmirch his honor as a hero to slaughter us. This is the next best thing to satisfy him but at the same time ensure we don’t antagonize your camp.” I play my trump. 

“Guys,” he sounds genuinely shocked. “It would be pretty disrespectful if I, a mere tuner, were to make an offer to ally with you. My role is to facilitate a potential relationship. It’s up to milady to make a judgment of your worth. But more importantly, striking an alliance would put you in much more danger. Milady and Archer have confirmed the status of all Servants except for Caster. Not to be rude, but Mary, you’re the weakest Servant by quite a large margin. Status isn’t a defining factor in a magical battle royale, but it does affect how each team approaches the conflict.” 

Behind the pleasantries, he’s trying to tell us that we’re the most worthless duo in this war. No one wants to ally with a liability. The only person who would even consider that is the type of hero only told in storybooks. The kind that believes that going to the store to buy batteries can be considered a labor to help the neediest. The kind that will even reveal his identity if it meant helping someone he ‘liked.’ That kind of broken hero that is no longer necessary would take us in with gusto. But for the other teams, we become bait to catch the biggest fish in the Holy Grail War. Considering his personality, Archer would revel in the opportunity to resume some damsels in distress. So, this is a compromise. We don’t protect one another but still share information. 

“No matter how insulting this might be, it’s a good deal, dearie. We should take it.”

My brows furrow. “Rich, you know a lot about this Moonlit World stuff don’t you?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“The Moonlit World. It’s a snappy name because Servants, vampires, magecraft, magus-es, they only appear at night, a world that’s only alive under the moonlight, the Moonlit World.”

His hand is still on the table but he can’t contain himself. “That’s the most fucking retarded thing I’ve ever heard! It’s called the Magecraft World or the World of Magecraft. What retard comes up with shit like Moonlit World?” The pure venom that rolls from those words sends my mind reeling. 

What pissed this guy off his rocker? When kids at school would say things in the same passionate tone, Krista and I would just laugh about it behind their backs. There are definitely more important things in the world that deserve your attention, so just chill the fuck out. Why are you getting so mad about influencers, Youtubers, and homoerotic pairings in Japanese comics that aren’t even meant for teenage girls? But Krista left, so I’m left wondering that maybe the stuff I laughed at, maybe all the stuff you all care about isn’t stupid. Maybe I’m the one who’s stupid. While you all cared about all these causes, I just didn’t understand you because I have never truly felt passionate about anything before. 

“Yeah, sorry about that but have you heard of the qualities that make someone a Magician’s Egg? The eyes that see into the world, errr. . . senses that perceive the subtleties of the world.” 

“Eyes that? You mean clairvoyance? But a Magician’s Egg? Oof, that’s a term I haven’t heard in years. The last Magician’s Egg popped up in Japan around forty years ago. Now, she’s a Grand who also earned a Sealing Designation, but her sister inherited the magic. There’s a rumor that when she was born many prominent magi came to visit her, but not a single magician. Hindsight, amirite?” He looks at me, “Why are you interested in Aozaki Touko?” 

“Thank you for the offer Rich, but Mary and I have to refuse.” 

Mary’s expectations must have been blown away with that single sentence. Rich, on the other hand, keeps the calmly mirthful face he wears as long as he’s not correcting people about magecraft. 

“Good for you guys! I know resolve when I see it. Thanks for stopping by you two.” He closes the lid on the music box. The atmosphere lightens considerably as the music fades back into the box. “Let me see you out.” 

Mary dematerializes as Rich opens the door and escorts me to the end of the corridor towards the stairs. I look back at him and he flashes a Facebook perfect smile. After smiling sarcastically in reply, I start walking down the stairs. There’s someone coming up, so keep to the right Nadine. She passes me rather quickly, so I’m unable to get a glimpse of her. But there’s one thing that I do remember; she was pure white, almost like a snow fairy, but her chest was covered in navy blue. Was she a nun? There’s no other way I can explain that headdress. It doesn’t take long to reach the bottom of the stairs. Even though I can no longer see Rich I can still make out his voice. 

“Sella, so lovely to see you! What has milady asked of me this time?”

*****

“How was school today?” My mom cheerily asks me the moment I get into the car.

“So, the school finally called to tell you I haven’t been coming?” 

She glances at me in annoyance before taking the car off park. We drive in total silence until we hit the busiest intersection in town. 

“Mom, I don’t want to go to school for a few days,” I preempt her. My mom’s not the best driver; she gets pretty nervous in any situation when it’s more than four cars around her. Usually, she affords the passenger a sentence or two so she can keep concentrating on the road. However, when traffic grinds to a halt as it always does at this intersection, that’s when she launches into her mom-ologue. I’ll take the initiative so she won’t be able to frame this fight we’re about to have. 

“As long as you help Father Phahn with his work, I don’t mind covering for you for these two weeks.”

“Wait, what?” What happened to the shouting, tears, ultimatums, and all-out emotional nuclear warfare? What is this weak-ass diplomacy shit involving the shadiest priest I’ve ever met? “Mom, what is going on?”

I’m actually worried. 

“Well, I was having a nice mid-morning hot chocolate with Father Phahn. He really can make an almost magical hot chocolate.”

“Mom, why was he at your work?” 

She turns away from the road and looks at me in the eye, “Nadine, I’m telling a story here; please don’t interrupt.” 

“Mom, the light’s green.”

“No, it’s clearly not.” 

Who is this fifth-dimensional chess grandmaster and what did she do with my mom? She’s always had a weakness for her children. We’re her blindspot because she loves my brother and doesn’t know what to do about me. This allows her to throw herself into her career knowing my brother will never do anything to embarrass her, but also to drown herself into her career so she doesn’t have to deal with this failure. I love my mom, I think, but she’s too obvious when it comes to us. So why can’t I get a read on her today? 

“Like I was saying, I was having a magical hot chocolate with Father Phahn, when the school called about your unexplained absences. Understandably, I was upset and disappointed, but Father Phahn calmed me down. You’re a teenager; what you’re going through is normal. We just never had to deal with it with your brother but everyone’s different. Your dad’s gone. This is a hard time for you, I get it.” 

My face is in my hands, “Mom —” 

“Okay, okay, I’m getting there. Stop rushing me like you’re one of these drivers,” she says, gingerly pumping the brakes. 

“Did you know there was an English nobleman in town? He bought the ranch on the north side of town. Don’t blame him, it’s a prime time to invest in Californian agriculture. Anyway, Lord Byron, as he likes to be called, is hosting a small church charity function tonight. Father Phahn asked if you would like to attend to talk about your experience as a student in Tolosa. At first, I was skeptical because that sharp tongue of yours might give the poor posh fellow a heart attack, but Father Phahn assured me you were the perfect person for the job.” 

“It’s a great opportunity,” I robotically mutter. 

“I’m glad we agree.” 

“I’ve got no choice in this do I?” 

“None what-so-ever.” 

We’re silent for another few minutes. Neither of us are listening to the radio, so I switch it off. 

“What’s in it for you, mom?”

“Can’t a mother want to see her daughter succeed?” 

“What’s in it for you? Why did that shady priest come to see you this morning.” 

“He’s right about you, that priest. You’re a sharp girl, rough around the edges but you’re smart. You have a lot to offer.” She leans into the driver’s seat. “It seems one of Lord Bryon’s daughters isn’t too happy with their current interior designer. He found my firm on the internet and turns out my reputation precedes me. If this goes well, this would be more than just a big customer. Career opportunities like this only come once in a lifetime.” 

“That’s why you’re prostituting your only daughter. Give them my brother. You’ve seen him at his football games. He’s good at being bottom.” 

“Nadine!”

“What? A British nobleman just decides to come to Tolosa of all places. I’ve gone through your Netflix history — all those artsy European films you watch. This is totally a weird sex party.” 

“Nadine, Father Phahn is a priest.” 

“Yeah, mom, he’s a priest. Check the news.”

She pulls into the driveway, parks, and switches the car off.

“Nadine, do you honestly think that he’s a bad person or is this just about antagonizing me?” 

I — I. Jeez, mom don’t look at me like that. Like you actually care enough about my opinion. He looks like a cross between a page boy and a lizard, but he was nice enough to help me out the night Mary was first summoned. Right. I didn’t have an ally and even if he didn’t extend his hand to me, he was still there to explain things and tell me what I needed to hear. 

“He’s alright, that priest.” 

“Good, I’m glad we both agree for once.”


	16. 15/ The Strongest Ally

**15/ The Strongest Ally**

After school snack: rice cracker, smoked salmon, and a dollop of wasabi on top. I got as far as the pantry when Cherry ambushed me. She wasn’t there to scold me about eating before dinner, instead, she confronted me about leaving the Mission at night. That is to say, Cherry and I fought. Father Kelsey made himself scarce. He didn’t know what to do; this was the first time we’ve ever fought. 

Fair enough, my replacement had an entire team from the Holy See specializing in memory modification and clean-up. This Holy Grail War just wasn’t my responsibility anymore. There was no reason why I should be patrolling the city at night, especially with seven Ghost Liners fighting. 

She went limp when I told her about the vampire. Her right arm crossed her body as she grabbed her left elbow and her nails dug. I’m sure it hurt, but you couldn’t see anything on her face other than a practiced expression of disdainful guilt. She softly asked if I had read the contents of Dilo’s letter. I told her that with the vampire in town and the Holy Grail War, I didn’t have the time. That’s kind of how we left it. This stomach squelching awkward place that neither of us has lived in before. I don’t think that Cherry’s wrong, but this isn’t something that a member of the Church can ignore; I have a vampire to hunt. 

The lord living on the top of the hill, the college, oppressively looms over this side of town. If we’re talking landmarks, there’s an elementary school and a Methodist church. Other than that, it’s just rows of houses. Each row of houses peaks over the ones before it, like a staircase leading to the freeway leaving town. It’s easy to tell which of the houses belong to the students from the homemade beer pong tables or lawn chairs in the front yard. This is not the best place for a Dead Apostle to find a victim. On foot, it would take about five minutes to run to any main roads or into the school itself. But, the slope of the hill and the abundance of tall trees in the area create zones where the street lights simply cannot reach at night so — 

A Dead Apostle who expands its territory in the middle of a city is an anomaly. The deaths are too obvious. Remember, when the Dead drain the blood from a victim, more than half goes to the parent vampire while the other half maintains the Dead. Aggressive territorial expansion in a densely populated area like a city comes with equally rapid notoriety. Its irresponsible growth following the same curve as microbes, insects, or humans, but the carrying capacity for Dead Apostles is the moment someone calls the Church. 

Any Dead Apostle attempting to take control of a city must at least be Class Five and doing so in a country without a large Church presence. No Class Five Dead Apostle is stupid enough to do that. A Dead Apostle who wishes to create its own country in the heart of Europe slowly takes the land and inhabitants on the outskirts of that city, in isolated communities or even farms. When the force reaches critical mass, the newly undead populace is used to raid utilities, communication, and transport in one fell swoop, creating an isolated world to lord over. I remember reading a report about the unnumbered Ancestor using this method in a French village about half a century ago. Either way, that seems to be the traditional method for a Dead Apostle to stave off boredom. There’s one more uncommon but surprisingly effective method for conquering a city — making oneself indispensable to the local economy. Considering this method relies on a Dead Apostle stooping to the level of humans, it is rarely employed. The Dead Apostle in this city has been outright attacking people, so I think we can rule that out. A territorially inclined Dead Apostle needs a base of operations to hide when the sun comes up. Usually, this is the spiritual geometric focus of the surrounding major leylines, the point where all the life in the area is collected. In the context of the Holy Grail War, they are the locations where the Grail can descend. 

As I was traveling from Pitch Hill to Cerro Huerta I felt the remnants of a powerful bounded field. I took the same path as the handful of college students walking home until I passed what used to be the main axis of the bounded field — a fallen street light. The strange thing about street lights in this area of town is that they’re tied to the power poles. Most of the people living on this street must have been without power for the day. 

Checking their phones, workers with fluorescent vests idly surround the orange cones. The power’s back. We can get the streetlight up tomorrow. No one cares about a single streetlight anyway. All that’s left is to wait for a truck to take this fallen pole away. 

I’d like to get a closer look at the carnage but some of the workers might be Father Phahn’s agents. I don’t think he’d like me intruding on his operations two days in a row, so I’ll just be on my way to check the other leyline focus. 

It’s easy to get lost in this part of town. You always know your general direction, don’t get me wrong — the college is to the north and the plaza is across Santa Rosa to the west. Yet the streets themselves are labyrinthine. Some roads lead to nowhere and others are nested within themselves. That’s why when coming out from the freeway you’re always making a beeline for Grand Ave, the main road. Don’t let the siren song of the side roads seduce you; otherwise, you’ll be like me, on Google Maps trying to figure out exactly where I am and what’s the safest rooftop to climb. If I keep going up the hill, there’s an elementary school I can hop on and make my way south — 

Ow, I bump into a power pole. Wait, I don’t think a power pole has a skirt. . . I haven’t looked up yet, but my magic circuits paralyze themselves because I know that aura. That all-consuming oppressive divinity that declares you are truly nothing compared to the being in front of you — the information that makes up the corpus can never even come close to the light contained within that Saint Graph. There is nothing that I can do other than to yield my entire being. Even if the divinity in front of me were to ask for my life, I could do nothing but agree with a broken smile on my face and tears of joy in my eyes. 

“Hail, child. Perchance I could trouble you for some directions?” 

I press the power button on my phone and slip it into my pocket. 

“Of course, sir.” 

“Was there perhaps a reason why you stopped at the previous intersection?” He asks. 

Servants are given any language the Grail deems it necessary for them to know so they can smoothly communicate with their Master and other Servants. How that language manifests seems to depend on the personality of the Heroic Spirit. As for foreign Masters. . . Well, if you don’t know how to transmit your intent with magecraft you’re not ready to be a Master. 

“Excuse me, sir. I’m working for the Church. I’m currently hunting a vampire.” I don’t think I could lie to him even if I wanted to. Every time I look at him, my mind just screams for me to run away but at the same time to submit to his every whim. As a child of the Lord, I can’t help but feel disappointed in my lack of faith. Father Kelsey tells me that’s the reason why my baptismal sacrament is so mediocre. 

“Considering the quality of the mana in the modern world, I wouldn’t believe that Lamyros still endangered humanity.” 

“No sir, I’m not looking for a member of those phantasmal bloodsucking species. This vampire is a singularity that rejects humanity.” 

“Is that so, child? Then our aims are parallel.”

“Sir, you’re hunting the Dead Apostle as well?” 

“My Master recently alerted me that this Lamyros you speak of attacked a girl I have a particular fondness for and her Servant.” 

Why would a Dead Apostle attack a Master? Masters have Servants. If that Dead Apostle was indeed a Master, it doesn’t make sense that it would attack another Master without its Servant. That’s right, that theory doesn’t make sense because the Dead Apostle isn’t a Master.

“If this involves another Master and Servant, why are you investigating, sir?” 

His horrible smile blots out the sun, “Hunting a monster that endangers the feeble. . . Even I am a victim to lapses of nostalgia. What say you child, shall we hunt?”

*****

I take him around the border of town because if we went through downtown, he would halt traffic and in three minutes his picture would be all over the Tolosa subreddit. Although the Church has several algorithms to detect social media posts with a hint of supernatural and flag it as offensive content that needs to be discredited along with the person posting it by the small country of fake accounts we run using a prototype cloud computing cluster named after a dragon-slaying king, we can’t get rid of photos that are directly saved and sent to friends. We might be able to stop the proliferation of the information, but not the capture. The polaroid revival was a dark few years for the Church in America.

Anyone could tell this giant is a hero. Proper Heroic Spirits all have a radiance built from humanity’s hopes and dreams. Of the few Servants that I’ve seen, this giant shines the brightest. He is as incandescent as a sun, but at the same time, he does not hold a single fixed point in the ether. The breadth of his aura encompasses the sky itself, rendering his existence constantly all-consuming and all-bearing at the same time. I don’t know what his legend is, but he’s probably one of the most famous heroes in history. Yet, the impulse that overrides all my senses keeps shouting, ‘he’s a monster. He’s nothing more or less than a mon—

_— no matter who—_

Shut up Dilo, you’re gone now. Push it down, Chris. Bury it like they buried his corpse. 

“Are you unwell, child? ‘Tis difficult for me to gauge how tired others might be.” 

I shake my head, “No sir, you were talking about yesterday’s labor?”

He launches into a tale about the dangers he braved traveling across the town — incognito one might add — to purchase a pack of batteries from Rite-Aid. His voice booms across the field, every upbeat louder than its echo. He centers his story around the townsfolk he tried to help even if his Master told him to mind his own business. I’m sure he ended up causing more destruction and chaos than he intended without even realizing the trouble he caused. Poor Father Phahn probably had to run Protocol #1157 — what to do when a Servant decides to go public — a SOP ratified due to the fall-out a certain King of England promising to fix an opera house he destroyed. Archer seems to be having so much fun that I can’t help but think maybe this hero is. . . lonely? I’m not sure because I don’t think I’ve been lonely before. For what I can tell, loneliness comes from a single grain, ‘no one can relate to me.’ These grains propagate and accumulate until they’re a flood of anxiety and insecurity. Loneliness, the isolated island where you try your best to reach out but you feel all the attempts to grasp your hand are dismissive at best. People around you might be kind but they don’t have your well-being at heart. No one’s ever had your well-being in their heart. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that before. No matter how much people have dismissed me for putting wasabi on everything I eat, I get where they’re coming from. Yeah, I like wasabi. People laugh, so I laugh. This is just how we interact with each other.

_All of us_ shut _no matter who_ up _we are_ Dilo. 

“As I was saying, child, I feel invigorated at the prospect of crossing armaments with other noble heroes.”

I shake my head to dismiss my thoughts before responding, “Really, sir?” 

“Truthfully, this is a fine tournament to sample talent across all of history. Berserker is a rare flower that blooms only on the battlefield. The force behind her blows is not due to years of experience but a misplaced conviction.” He starts listing the Servants that he’s met one by one. “Lancer is an odd fellow. Feral as he may fight, his stature is no less inferior than mine. He seems familiar. Perhaps I’ve met his progenitors. But at the same time, he reminds me of the Amazons. Could he be one of their descendants? There’s Saber too, the queen who kindles her divinity. What a time I could pass, exchanging blows with that demonic sword of hers and then in matters of the flesh. And of course, there’s Rider. Cheeky Rider, I still owe him for that slight.” 

I nod without meaning to, “Is that your wish for the Grail? To win.” 

“My divine wife is a cupbearer. I have little use for more cups. A chance at a second life would bring me much joy, but this world has no affection for me. This world has never truly wanted me.” 

I open my mouth and then close it before anything foolish comes out.

“But if I can be true to myself, true to that mad warrior who died protecting a girl-child. If I can realize her wish, then I shall once again overcome anyone and anything.” 

I don’t know who he’s referring to but I understand the vow we use to plug the gap in our hearts all too well. We will selfishly sacrifice tomorrow to protect the past that has already slipped through our memories. If you take something and allow the waves of time to erode it until everything is gone — something beyond ‘one’ will remain. The proof that a precious feeling existed becomes evident due to its non-existence.

“Child, what do you think about the world that you live in?” He asks me wistfully. 

“I think it’s beautiful. I’m glad to be alive.” I say without hesitation. 

He looks at me from the side of his eye. 

“You don’t strike me as a naive fool, child. You are advanced enough in years to have been considered an adult in my era. During my era, the struggle was the strong preying on the weak. Compulsive abstractions like love and hate existed but were beholden to the former. It was not a perfect world, but I always felt as though that principle allowed people to live with clarity. Their role and place in this world were ordained — evil was merely the monsters that made their nests in the untamable nature on the edge of the city state. Heroes were people who cleared those evils. To make the world safer meant to make the world more human. And thus, we reached this era where the world is truly human. The aggressor is no longer nature, the victim is no longer humanity. Each person has simultaneously become an aggressor and a victim while claiming disparity and that they are the ones unduly burdened. Do you not find that excess unsightly?” 

“I’m not sure what the world you lived in was like, sir, so I don’t think I have the qualifications to make a judgment of which world is better. In this country at least, we have an ur-myth about ‘pulling yourself up by your bootstraps.’ Anyone can better themselves and their position in life if they put in the work. I may be old enough to be considered an adult in your era, sir, but I’m not old enough to be legally an adult here. Maybe that’s why I don’t really know whether it’s correct or not. Right now, there are a lot of people who are questioning this founding principle; there are a lot of people doing their best to defend it as well. But it goes further than that, there are people who market it as a commodity, denounce it but teach it to their children, hate themselves because they can’t live up to it, worship it and condemn others because of it, are relieved by it because it means they can start anew, deceive others with it while excusing themselves, protest it yet yearn for the opportunity to make it a reality. The narrative has woven itself so tightly into the social fabric that those who revile this delusion feel their hearts empathetically leap when an aspiring entrepreneur aligns his story with this narrative on reality television; those who attest to this commandment furiously seek public aid while blaming the country and its lacking safety net when met with hard times. Every day, the people of this country interact with this and other narratives, forming snap opinions of their peers while urging others to take their own story with the nuance they deserve. I know there’s a lot of things that are wrong with this country, this world. But I can’t help but think all the desire is beautiful in its own way. Most people would rebuke me: how dirty your privileged self is, making trophies of people’s misunderstood perspectives, calling that tapestry of misery something to be admired when there are so many people are suffering in it every day. To be understood, to be given attention, protect who we think we are is the modern struggle to live. I don’t think there’s anything wrong in being proud of that. Humans are no longer protecting our lives, we’re fighting to protect our identities, sir.”

“My captain claimed most men were fools and therefore would often speak of his utopia: a land where citizens would be offered an education befitting that of a hero, where they could obtain suitable compensation for following his rule, and live in a land where everyone could be safe and understood. He was a braggart, but he never put on airs. He only fought when someone denounced, criticized, or laughed at that ideal — never to preserve his own life. To him, the utopia he was destined to create was his identity. To attack it was to attack his very way of life. This era may be close to how his ‘utopia’ would progress when faced with reality. Notwithstanding, he was a petty man. If he was summoned in this era, I am certain he would be disgusted in the excessive amount of fools living in this era, unbeknownst that each fool follows the same contradictory way of life as he did. So, child, are you saying you will forgive his den of humanity?” 

“I’m not sure, sir. If I see someone crying, I’ll call out to make sure they’re okay. If I see an action that harms others, I’ll denounce it. But that’s only on the individual level. It becomes a lot easier to agree with or judge things when they’re faceless entities — when we’re faceless entities. I’m just a person too. Maybe I'm a romantic for wanting to believe the actions of the people behind those entities are beautiful. That someone out there should accept them.

He doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.

“Would you be interested in an engagement? I know a girl. You should make children with her.”

“Sorry, sir. I’m currently spoken for.”

“Shame, child. I like you. I hope one day you find someone who doesn’t.” 

What a horrible thing to say to someone.

*****

The backtrail to Islay Hill is wide and empty. Trees are small, sparse, and sad while the yellow-black clay is well-worn from first-time hikers ‘giving it a go’ before moving on to harder climbs. Islay Hill is the youngest Sister and the others judge her for that.

Hikers like the overlooking view the Sisters offer so much that some students put up a swing on a Pitch Canyon vista. Whenever people say what they like about hiking in Tolosa they always reply, “It’s a spiritual experience, it gives us perspective.” Only that perspective is of something beyond the box known as human. In essence, people come to Tolosa to escape themselves on top of the mountains before intoxicating themselves in the breweries. Islay Hill, covered in tall straw-colored grass thirsty for spring rains is the gateway to that distant world so ingrained in this city’s culture. If one were to begin a ritual to stray away from the human — this would be the natural starting point. 

Archer and I don’t say a word to each other as we climb. We can already see what’s at the top. The word “islay” is Salinan Native American for wild cherry, an evergreen shrub known for its holly-like leaves and an edible showy fruit that was traditionally fermented into an alcoholic beverage. Roughly ten years ago, the mountain was severed from its natural creek. Trees no longer grow on this hill. That’s why, at first glance, the members of the local Sierra Club and the Parks and Rec Department would be overjoyed to learn that trees had come back to Islay Hill. I’m not sure those are wild cherry trees though. 

In the center of the grove is another one of those trees that seethes noble magical energy. Each pulse that threatens to send my circuits aflame is paralyzed by Archer’s own divine aura. The other two trees I’ve come across were burned with magical fire. The arsonist hasn’t found this one yet. But, even the ferocity and mystery of those flames weren't enough to turn the trees into cinder. 

“It’s supplying the leyline with magical energy, not drawing from it. Almost like a pump, priming something.” 

“Discerning the machinations of magi is not my strong suit. I fail to see what this has to do with the Lamyros at large, however dangerous.”

The Holy Grail gives Masters special clairvoyance to discern the status and abilities of their Servants. Non-Masters can access this clairvoyance with a certain Mystic Code. The book is not difficult to make in an area under the influence of a Holy Grail. The pages may be blank, but it holds a fragment of the Grail’s magical energy that helps attune oneself to the Servant’s magical energy. With enough exposure, the clairvoyance is converted or perhaps a better word would be ‘downloaded’ to one’s consciousness, allowing the overseer to read the status of Servants. I believe the inventor was a former head of the Tohsaka family. 

One of Archer’s personal skills, Eyes of the Mind (False), predicts danger. It’s an inborn sixth-sense indispensable for an Archer who traditionally specializes as a scout and survivalist. When Archer says that something is dangerous, not heeding his words is an objective folly. 

“Sir, you shouldn’t touch tha —” 

He knows that it is dangerous. He knows that it will hurt him. It’s not curiosity that will kill the cat, it’s blind heroism. If that tree is dangerous to him of all people, then it’s dangerous to me, it’s dangerous to everyone that comes hiking and wants to take a photo with this fantastical tree that sprouted overnight. 

This is dangerous so I shall get rid of it. 

Servant Archer listens to his Eye of the Mind (False) not so he can avoid danger, but so he can put his arm around what no one wants to. 

Instantly, tendrils come out from the tree securing his hand. He struggles for a second with herculean strength but his eyes go blank. 

“Sir!” 

Even though I know I can’t do anything, I reach out to one of the tendrils. Once again, my hand slips into the tree as the bark bubbles. 

THE BAND WAS NOT BUILT IN A DAY.

dO nOt fOrgEt 

On calm nights, the halcyon lady wraps her child in her falcon wings as she croons the same verse until even the waves tire of her voice

— Hush my dear, you may have been born afar but you shall grow big and strong. Do you see all the overweight piggies on this island? They were your father’s once. He left us, my dear, he left us because I wasn’t home enough for him. A witch can never be a man’s Only because she is a daughter of the moon symbolizing disease, madness, and magecraft. So. . . my dear, just like that cunning man, you too will leave this island. Find your father, dear heart, make yourself known to him. And in that fleeting moment where the dream of reconciliation may solidify into fact, please, dear one, tear at the scar your father drew and leave me as he did. For you must remind him of the family that could have been if he stayed. So, hush my dear, do not fear these crashing waves. Do not fear the storms that rage in these open oceans, for you shall grow big and strong. 

THE GLUTTONY WAS BUILT ON ABDUCTION 

Do NoT FoRGeT

YOU CAN (NOT) PRUNE THIS BRANCH. SEVEN TREES A FOREST DOES NOT MAKE IF ONE IS ROTTEN. YOURS MAY BE AN EMPIRE BUT MINE IS OUR SIN BEFORE IT WAS OURS.

Another vision sends me reeling, but I can’t worry about that right now. I clamber off my backside and instinctively take out a cross-shaped hilt from the inner pocket of my jacket. But Chris, if an attack with the spiritual rank of a Servant was unable to harm the tree, there’s nothing you can do with a mere Key of Providence. 

“Sir, are you –!” 

The liquid gold returns to his eyes. In one nonchalant movement, he tears off his left arm that was covered in tendrils and throws it on the ground. The moment the ether body hits the ground, it starts to dematerialize as blue particles fading into the night sky. Conversely, Archer’s open shoulder profusely bleeds, filling the grove with an iron scent. The severed flesh, the torn muscle fibers, and the lymph leaking from ligaments belong in a biology textbook. 

“Sorry, sir, I. . . I don’t know any healing spells.” 

The majority of healing magecraft stimulate the injured body to regenerate while more indirect forms include growing compatible tissue that can be transplanted. My magecraft teacher was not born with the attributes necessary to heal others — she could only take things away. Even if I understand the theory, applying it is impossible. 

“I was the one who acted; you are not responsible for my actions. And this?” His deltoids heave as he lifts the bleeding stump. “This is nothing more than a flesh wound, not worthy of expending a life. Although, if that branch had held on for longer, that tree may have forcibly taken that life. Child. . . what did you see?” 

“A beach,” I do my best to suppress rising nausea. “There was a woman on a beach.” 

“I shot down her father once.” What sort of hero, let alone person, can sheepishly smile mere moments after ripping off his own arm? “He scolded my brashness but thought me bold so he lent me his golden cup. I’ve heard they’re complete opposites but they feel similar.”

“Instead of the vampire, there’s another tree. Why are there these trees in all the locations a Dead Apostle might make his lair? It’s like —” 

“Your reasoning is sensible,” Archer interrupts me. “This can be nothing else but the work of an enemy Servant. The Lamyros in question is undoubtedly his Master.” 

“That’s out of the question, Archer. There’s no way this Dead Apostle is a Master. If he had a Servant why didn’t the Servant attack your friend?” 

Something smolders within, setting alight the bounds that tied ‘sir’ to any words that came out of my mouth.

“Child, speculation may be the first step to assumption, but the evidence does not deny this possibility. I am unsure why the Lamyros would feed without its Servant, for twisted creatures summon similarly twisted Servants, but if a Master and her Servant were to appear before it, the creature would have no problem ascertaining their ability before attacking. Assassin is possibly the weakest Servant in this war. My very own Master may be more than a match for her. Furthermore, you said so yourself, child of the Church, all the places you have investigated so far as possible lairs for the Lamyros have only led you to these artifacts.”

“No, that doesn’t necessarily mean the Dead Apostle is a Master.” That can’t mean the Dead Apostle is a Master. “This is just all conjecture based on a few trees on fallen leylines. Is there any _unassailable_ evidence that this Dead Apostle is a Master? Because if not, the question still stands. If we are to solve the question of whether or not the Dead Apostle is a Master, we need to find that Dead Apostle first and confirm a Command Spell. What you currently have is an interpretation.” 

Archer takes my entire being in his eyes. They might be inquisitive, but his divine aura crashes against whatever buffer I’ve managed to establish. The sky itself rages against the tiny ember in my chest. The storm clouds roll in as the thunder booms, lightning strikes, and a torrential Mediterranean downpour whips this shell of a body until it’s scattered into the sky itself, but even so, that ember still burns. 

“Child,” he has a worried expression on his face. “You don’t want this Lamyros to be a Master, do you?” 

I — 

Um, no, I — 

Hmm, it’s just that I — 

Hah. . . I don’t want this Dead Apostle to be a Master? 

Of course I want this Dead Apostle to be a Master. If it was a Master that would mean Father Phahn would be left to deal with it, and I could go back home. There are quizzes on Friday that I have to study for, four of them in fact. But that Dead Apostle isn’t a Master. It _can’t_ be a Master. This is something I know in my gut, so why is my gut telling me that there’s a good chance it might be a Master? 

“Until there is _clear_ evidence, which there isn’t, there is absolutely no reason to think a Dead Apostle is involved with these trees and therefore there is no reason to believe the Dead Apostle is a Master.” 

He doesn’t argue further even if I can see that he still doesn’t believe me. 

We all have our own viewpoints; it’s not up to me to try to change his. I can’t think of this wounded demi-god in front of me as either a mere familiar, nothing more than a corpse, leftover thought, and magic circuits. Neither does he bring up the impression of a page torn from a misplaced history book rotting on a bookshelf in a refurbished library where people are more interested in the free Wi-Fi. Even so, we try to understand and when we can’t all we can do is accept. Let that uncomfortable silent distance become the note on which our conversation vapidly ends. 

“It would seem I must away, child. My Master tells me there is a gathering tonight for all the participants of the Grail War.” He chuckles, his voice feigning exasperation over his stump, “How am I going to explain this?”

I shake my head in reply. “It wasn’t your fault, sir.” 

“Best of luck, child. Don’t lose hope, there’s definitely someone out there, even for you.” As he dematerializes, he raises his stump in salute without turning back towards me. “Find me if you are ever hunting children of Lamia once again. Your company was pleasant.” 

After I can no longer sense his presence, I slowly take the front trail back down the hill, away from the stars and back towards the sickly, orange light pollution.

*****

Thirty minutes later, I make my way back into the center of town. Two streams of people are on the verge of converging at the traffic light. On my side, there’s a couple with arms linked, a father holding his child’s hand, two elderly women, and a gaggle of college students with boba. We all busy ourselves, fiddling with the contents of a purse, checking an inbox with zero unread emails, or asking our friend about the flavor of their drink even if we were there when they ordered it, so we don’t have to pay attention to the cardboard sign the homeless person sitting on the corner of the street is holding.

I turn up the volume of my Bluetooth earbuds. 

The walk light turns green. 

Every one of ‘us’ steps off the sidewalk. 

I’m making my way through downtown, walking fast, so faces pass. Concentrating on being homebound, I stare blankly ahead and make a way through the small Wednesday crowd. I need to find that Dead Apostle. I miss — 

I pause the song. 

Archer said that all the Masters were invited to something tonight. A situation involving three or more Servants is both rare and severe enough that the city goes from a yellow ‘high,’ to a red ‘extreme.’ The fire chief specifically insisted that we use the state fire danger ratings to characterize potential high-risk combat situations. I was partial to adding a ‘Triple Red’ danger rating, but that’s bureaucracy for you. That aside, a gathering of Masters doesn’t have anything to do with me, and honestly, I’m sure most of the Masters won’t even show up. After all, it is much too easy for a Servant to deploy an Anti-Fortress Noble Phantasm and destroy the venue along with everyone inside. . . . 

I think I know who the organizer might be. I haven’t heard from him in about a week. The last time we spoke, I was still the official overseer and he had just confirmed that his Caster had been summoned. Due to Caster’s Territory Creation, this function might be too obvious a trap. At the same time, it’s the perfect opportunity for participants to test Caster’s defenses or use the event as a distraction to pierce them. It’ll be a flip of the coin whether all the Masters or none of the Masters attend. I think the stature and celebrity of this magus might load that coin. 

Okay, I’m not sure who you’re trying to prove this to Chris, but I’m convinced. The first technique those SAT prep books preach is process of elimination, right? Then, let’s eliminate the wrongest answer to the question ‘who is this Dead Apostle?’


	17. 16/ Stay In My Arms

**16/ Stay In My Arms**

“Feels like prom night.” 

“What’s prom?” 

“I was going to prom with Krista, but she’s going with my stupid brother now. Prom’s stupid.” I look over at Mary on the other side of the back seat dressed in her cook’s apron. “Sorry, we didn’t have time to get you anything.” 

“I would have liked a dress like yours, dearie — with less leg showing of course. But you are the one who was invited.” 

This Nordstrom Rack red-spotted, spaghetti-strapped, one piece was the only thing in my closet that mom thought was appropriate for a charity function. Then she made me put this denim jacket over it because she remembered it was a church charity function. “All these clothes, Nadine. All these clothes and nothing nice for an occasion like this. What do you even do with the money I give you to buy nice clothes? Do you need me to start buying your clothes again?”

“Don’t kid yourself, Mary.” I look out the tinted window. The rows of streetlights become more and more sparse. We must be reaching the border of the suburb, about to sink into the dark maw of the Open Space. “If that priest’s going to be there, this is about the Holy Grail War. Servants are more important than Masters, you do all the fighting.”

“The Servant may fight, but it’s the Master who calls upon the Servant. We are tied to our Masters through this line. In fact, you could say the Servant is a reflection of the Master unless a very specific catalyst is used. But that choice only highlights the Master’s influence.”

I think the question we’re both getting at is ‘What sort of person is Nadine Craig to have summoned Mary?’ Most of the time Mary can’t stop talking, but it’s always about her impressions of our modern world and how terrific it is compared to when she lived. I don’t have the heart to break it to her and half-hope she’ll get it on her own. This world isn’t beautiful, it’s awkward and cringy like the feathery masks they put on at fancy charity functions like the one we’re going to attend. I really don’t see how Mary and I are similar. She doesn’t talk about herself. I know her name, but I’m not sure who she might be. Most importantly, for someone who is supposedly a Heroic Spirit, she doesn’t seem much of a hero — unlike Archer or Rider. She gets easily flustered when things don’t go her way and takes offense to almost everything and everyone who disagrees with her. If you were to ask me what her good parts are, I would say that she listens and isn’t afraid to say when she doesn’t know something. There are too many people today who are scared of being wrong; they might not act like they know everything, but sure act like they can’t make a mistake. Whenever they do make a mistake, it’s a ‘just kidding’. No, you weren’t ‘kidding’, you were wrong. Own that mistake, please. I think it has to do with this generation’s obsession with constructing the perfect identity for themselves, which is why ‘having bought your Insta followers’ passes for an insult now? Doubting someone’s authenticity when your own intentions are suspect as fuck is wow, I don’t know how to describe it. I believe the correct vernacular is ‘Yikes.’ 

The limousine stops as the divider descends, revealing the driver. He tells us that this is where he was told to drop us off and then shows us on the map on his phone. We quickly thank him, then exit onto a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. At least the moon’s pretty big tonight so I’ll be able to see my attacker. Fun. Last night was a vampire, are we going Frankenstein’s Monster or Mummy Remake tonight? 

As the limousine pulls away, we start to hear the constant clicking of horse hooves and the squeaking of a carriage out of a Disney movie. With one hand holding his lantern at eye level, the driver tips his top hat in deference to us like it’s St. Patrick’s Day. 

“Miss Nadine Craig and her Servant. I’ve been asked to escort you to the house,” before motioning to the open door. 

I look at Mary who looks at me. Without much of a choice, we enter the unlit carriage and the doors close behind. I take out my phone and turn on the flashlight, but the moment we start moving, little tetrahedral bulbs fixed to the carriage start to glow. Each offers as much light as a candle. I can’t imagine they’re battery-powered, so could this be the magecraft Laurent and Rich were talking about? Moreover, as the horses climb up this dirt road, the carriage itself does not sway. In fact, if we’re talking comfort, this carriage beats the limo.

“Do you know much about this area?” Mary asks. 

I shake my head. I don’t think anyone around my age pays any attention to the local news. . . wait —

I snap my fingers, “That’s right, there was a big commotion over this area a few years… the Ferrari Open Space I think they called it. It’s an access point for Cardinal’s Peak, the tallest of the Sisters, so when developers wanted to buy a piece of the land, some people blew their tops.” 

“It’s larger than any of my employers’ summer houses.” She looks outside the window at the dancing lights decorating a rustic mansion. No, it might be large enough to call a gaudy, rustic castle. “Those ‘developers’ must have been Caster’s Master.”

*****

Two doormen greet us after we get off the carriage and Mary thanks the driver. Instead of following the path, the carriage and driver melt in the darkness. After confirming our identities, one of the doormen rushes into the building to find our host while the other begs our pardon before collecting something behind us. Neither of them seemed human. When I whisper this to Mary, she simply shrugs. Right, I had forgotten, Mary isn’t exactly human either. This is normal. Nadine, you’ve got to think like you’re normal.

“Nadine, thrilled to see you again.” The voice belongs to the tall, platinum blond priest with a bowl cut who might end up as my mother’s boyfriend. Do all priests take a vow of chastity? Whatever. Today he’s wearing full vestments with a rose-patterned stole trimmed with gold. He looks almost dignified, but it's so excessive that he’s a joke. 

“Thanks for having us.” We cross the threshold. 

“And of course, dear Mary. Good to see you again.” To which Mary curtsies. 

Looking around the lobby, anyone with taste could instantly tell how much of a mockery it would be to call this a fairytale palace. I understand why they were looking for a new interior designer. When we moved to this town there was a wave of gentrification happening in Paso Robles up north as the Central Coast aimed to topple Napa as the wine capital of California. For the next few years, my mom’s firm advertised themselves as pioneering the ‘California Style.’ She could never stop gushing about it during dinner. Her clients would always rave about that modern Spanish colonial style — it was like having a piece of the Romantic Mediterranean right in America. She would even force me to go to the Mission with her for inspiration. Luckily, Krista would always come along because her parents needed any excuse, they could to get her out of the house while they were ironing out their divorce settlement.

The interior designer must have done her best to imitate a Mediterranean castle, possibly taking inspiration from Hearst Castle. That was another place my mom kept taking Krista and me. Never my brother, he was too important for that. Either way, converting this old farmhouse into a Mediterranean fairytale castle was a feat that would make any interior design question just how much they were getting paid. This one was too nervous or OCD about her work. This place is too cold. My mother is a melodramatic, flighty girl-child who fills her loneliness with disposable high spirits, accessories, and ‘nice’ men. That unbearable, stubborn warmth that smothers every word is evident in all her work no matter how much she tells her clients she’s just a house whisperer and ‘This is just what the house wants to be.’ 

This. . . this high-ceiling hall filled with ‘solemn’ light, this ‘lush’ carpet that your ankles sink into is nothing more than a gilded veneer for what this place has always been, an old farmhouse. Too cold, too precise, the imperfections become too obvious — like an illusion that shatters at midnight. 

Then, this man must be the king of this fake Mediterranean Castle.

“This, Nadine, is Byron Valueleta Iselma, the current head of the Iselma family. Lord Byron, may I have the pleasure of introducing Nadine Craig, Master of....” he looks over at Mary. “Nadine Craig and her Servant,” he finishes. 

So, this is Lord Byron. I’ve never met anyone from a noble family before, but if this vermillion suit with an almost too conservative posture doesn’t say fancy, the cane seals the deal. 

“Thank you for inviting us to your home, sir. It’s the grandest home I’ve ever seen.” Mary almost squeals with excitement as she curtsies. 

I try to curtsey as well. “Thank you for inviting us to your lovely home,” I manage to spit out despite myself. 

“Ho, little lady, fortuitous that you still live.” It turns out Lord Byron’s conversation partner was the bowl cut priest’s Servant, Rider. “I seem to recall a similar situation when our troop left a squire in enemy territory during an annual raid. At the season’s curtain call and we marched home, we found him, chief of a small village.” 

What do I do in this situation? Am I supposed to just say ‘hello’ to you? Okay, but what if I say it too formally? Are you going to be offended? Fuck that, I’ll say it how I want. Yeah, no one’s going to remember this two weeks from now. I’ll just — 

“Hey —!” I familiarly tap his pauldron with my fist. I don’t know what I did. God, you’re stupid. You could have done anything else. 

Mary smiles in my place, “Thank you, Sir Rider. Good to see you as well.”

He bows to both of us and inclines his head at his Master. 

“Milord, what’s the casualty count, tonight?” He boyishly winks at the priest. That was a joke? It was terrible. 

The bowl-cut priest turns his head as his eyes sweep the room. It goes without saying our eyes all follow his as he counts out everyone in attendance. Examining the band playing some marching? music are Rich easily pulling off the classic black-tie look escorting his mistress, that silver-haired beauty who belongs in an overhyped show everyone talks about. If they’re here. . . Why is Archer wearing nothing but board shorts and a lei? I thought _I_ was underdressed. 

Archer takes a step forward and I want to let go of everything I didn’t eat for dinner in my stomach. Why is he missing an arm of all of a sudden while acting like it’s no big deal? 

I manage to wrench my eyes from that divine trainwreck. All alone in a corner, staring intently at a wall is Berserker. She let her hair down tonight. I should ask what shampoo and conditioner she uses. You can’t get that shine with Youtube-recommended beauty products. Otherwise, she looks like a mafia boss with that suit and skirt combination, not to mention the leather jacket fashionably but unethically trimmed with fur. I don’t see her Master. 

“It would seem we are missing the Saber and Lancer camps. Berserker’s Master sends her regards, she wasn’t able to make it tonight. Berserker let me know that her Master had ‘patients’ to see.”

“Absent two knight classes,” Lord Byron narrows his eyes. “Did you even expect them to heed your invitation, Father?” 

“The Church hasn’t been able to confirm Lancer’s Master. As for Saber’s Master, I have my own suspicions,” he smiles. “With one of Fuyuki’s founding families and five Ghost Liners present, no one in high magus society would dream of disparaging this party.”

“This is everyone.” The finality in Lord Byron’s words dismisses the priests. 

“Indeed, it would be a shame to waste more of the night. If you can all excuse me, I need a few minutes to prepare.” Phahn bows once again and heads into the next room leaving Lord Byron to stare at Mary and me. Okay, Nadine, don’t be awkward, say something mage — no, remember what Rich said, magus-ey. 

“So, ummm, Lord Byron. Where’s your Servant?” 

He looks into my eyes for a moment before blinking twice in disbelief. His expression keeps darkening as his eyes move from my flats to the crown of my head — like I’m nothing more than a piece of rotten meat. 

“Not even a Spellcaster.” 

“No, I just learned about my magic circuits when I summoned Mary.” I offer the biggest smile that I can as I dramatically gesture at Mary who waves. That’s how you get people to like you, right?

He looks over at Mary for just a second and then back towards me. “Get out before you die.” 

“What?” 

“Lord Byron?” Rider’s voice breaks my confusion. “Shall we not be too harsh with the little lady?” 

“I’ve met a magus who survived a Holy Grail War… I have also fought against one who did not. The difference in the quality of those two men was night and day, even if they were both repulsive people. You are nothing but a little girl. You do not have the talent, discipline, or the composure to survive, much less win. This is war, and you are nothing but a spoiled brat who has never lost anything in your life.”

“Hmmmm, that was great advice right there. I especially loved when you —” 

“Girl!” Mary growls at me, but I raise a hand to stop her. 

“I really loved it when you talked about loss? You’re a mega-rich member of British royalty, right? You have tea and crumpets with the Queen and play polo with Prince Harry or whatever. What have you ever lost in your goddamn life? Because the only thing you’ve ever lost that I can see with my spoiled brat eyes is the color of your hair. Yeah, I don’t know what dye or magecraft you’re using, but that brown isn’t natural.” I turn and storm off to sulk as Mary profusely apologizes. 

You’ve managed to fuck it all up yet again, Nadine. You finally found a place where you could be someone else for once, but of course, there are dicks everywhere. God, now you’re stuck next to the crazy lady who tried to kill Mary. The moment she starts talking about cats, run. 

“Hi,” I tap her on the shoulder.

Wow, didn’t expect her to turn around and give me her full attention like that.

“Just wanted to thank you for saving us from the vampire, last night.” 

“Doctor’s orders. Do you donate blood?” She changes the subject quickly. 

“Ummm, no. I’m too young. I think you have to be eighteen to donate blood, so yeah that’s something I’m looking forward to doing next year, you know. Along with voting and not drinking. Yay.” 

“False. In this state, the age of consent to give blood is seventeen. I see, there was no personal reason to have saved you.” 

Okay after the debacle with Lord Byron let’s try a different approach, “Thank you anyway. By the way, where is your Master? They couldn’t make it tonight?” 

“Doctor is currently seeing to an important operation.”

“Wow, operation? Is she like a doctor or something? That’s really cool. I really admire professional women.” I scratch the corner of my eye. 

“Instead of wishing to see more doctors made by women joining what there are, I wish to see as few doctors, either male or female, as possible. Mark you, the women have made no improvement, they have only tried to be ‘men’ and they have only succeeded in being third-rate men.”

“I’m going to go get some food, would you like me to bring you some?”

She pulls out a food thermometer from her suit and motions me to follow. When we reach the trays, she forcibly stabs the thermometer into whatever dish, snapping even crackers, narrating why each one is not fit to eat. 

“Ahhh, child, I didn’t see you come in. Come join us, come join us.” Archer waves to me from across the room as I leave Berserker. 

Archer and his Master are a fair distance away from Rich who is next to the mechanical band. From a distance, the band looks human. Each figure plays with the ease you might see at live music night downtown. But as you approach, you can see the wooden and metal joints that make up these mannequins. It’s almost like Lord Byron raided Men’s Warehouse. 

Rich regards each doll with a scornful but also appreciative expression. “When was this silk soaked in the moonlight? January. . . no June. And the bone in this gear. . . Nue? Now, where did they find a plume of siren feathers and how much did it cost?” 

It might be just a trick of the light or honestly magic, but those dolls playing the song seem like they’re sweating. 

“Okay we get it, American Patrol’s a piece of cake, but can you improvise over Coltrane changes?” The dolls start playing a new jazzy upbeat song with an incredible tempo but start to sputter after the first ten seconds. The band becomes out of sync, music lags, and some of the dolls completely stop. They’re unable to work out what the next most suitable note might be. 

“Stop! Stop this at once! Who requested Giant Steps?!” The band grinds to an almost relieved halt the moment they hear their master’s disapproval.

Rich boyishly scratches his head and goes over to Lord Byron, Rider, and Mary to apologize. 

“That man is more trouble than he’s worth,” Archer mutters under his breath. “Child, I would like to introduce Fillia von Einzbern.” 

The woman in the pure white dress, hemmed in gold, offers me her hand. Naturally, I go to shake it. Her skin is cold and her hand is limp. Handshakes are awkward, but I didn’t know they could be this awkward. 

“Ummm, wow, you’re so pretty. I love that dress! Y-You could totally be on Game of Thrones, hahaha.” She looks at me with blank eyes. Kill me. “Yeah, sorry about rejecting the alliance Rich offered me this morning. I don’t think I’m ready for that sort of commitment.” Geez, Nadine why do you sound like a fuckboy trying to get out of a third date with someone you met on Tinder? 

“Non-aggression pact. It was not a proposal for an alliance. The criteria you must meet for that to occur is to prove yourself worthy, Nadine Craig.” 

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. 

“You must forgive her, child. The Einzbern family consists of beings known as homunculi. Due to their extreme specificity — there are often issues with mental capacity or operating time. To supply enough magical energy to a Heroic Spirit such as myself, certain less functional aspects were disposed of.” 

I nod as Archer finishes and smiles at his Master. She smiles back, but you can instantly tell that not everything is there. Her red eyes take in the information around her which her brain then processes to deliver an answer. But there’s something missing that isn’t an emotion — I think I could only describe it as a soul. But that’s stupid since the way people react to certain things is so idiotic, so fake. It’s a performance that’s built upon social and cultural cues. We praise things when we don’t actually like the thing. We change our opinion based on how aligned the speaker is to our identity and drop our uncertainty into a vat of unwarranted faith to make ourselves feel secure about fiercely defending that point, repeating the same arguments ad nauseam. 

With both this world and the digital world as our stage, we attempt to synchronize our social performances as much as possible, delivering nothing more than ingenuine expressions repeated over and over in the hope of receiving genuine emotion. We don’t realize our audience are also actors on the stage delivering nothing more than ingenuine lines according to the script. Give up already, guys. That’s the most co-dependent relationship I’ve heard of. In comparison, my generation is probably worse off than Filia or the mechanical band.

“You’re really beautiful,” something catches in my throat. I don’t know if it’s from realizing how pure the things that aren’t people really are or it’s because I’ve once again realized what I lost with Krista. 

As Rich comes back, Lord Byron starts hitting his glass with a spoon. I guess I’ll ask Archer about his arm later.

“Thank you all, Masters and Servants who have gathered on such short notice. I hope the food and music did not displease.” His deep baritone voice booms even without a microphone. Useful stuff, magecraft. “I need not mention we are enemies in this enterprise; yet at the same time, we are allies ensuring this grand ritual runs its course, proving that the Root can be reached in this era without the need to develop a Sixth. 

However, dear Masters, dear Heroic Spirits, there is a large shadow hanging over this Holy Grail War. The current Church overseer, a position that existed since the Second World War to arbitrate the Grail War is a Master. How can we trust him to moderate this war? That is why I organized this small gathering. For this one night, instead of doing battle amongst ourselves, let us hear from the man himself. But before that, as a show of good faith, let me present to you, my own Servant and my daughter, Servant Caster and Estella Valueleta Iselma.” 

The door opens and two women walk in as the band starts playing a different song. From the pure pressure, magical energy, radiating from the first, she must be the Servant. Every fiber in my body tells me there’s only one word to describe her, but I can’t describe her in one word at all. My vision goes wild at the sight of her. 

MGI: Orange egg. 

LCK: Blue butterfly.

. . . 

Item Creation: Blue egg. 

. . . 

Golden Rule (Body): Chrysalis. 

The Servant screen goes crazy trying its best to identify each aspect of her and then categorize it accordingly, developing her profile. I want to say she’s beautiful, I really want to just let that be the descriptor that my mind settles on, but I can’t help but think that her existence is ugly, that the dress and her porcelain skin is made with nothing more than the demonic wish of ‘things _should_ be like this.’ Her existence is a pure rejection of my self; it does not heighten me in any way. I do not feel beautiful looking upon her. . . all that’s left is the bitter taste of ash in my mouth. No matter how beautiful the veiled woman at the Servant’s side may be, she cannot be more ⬛ than the Servant. The Servant mirrors the ⬛ of the lady and magically transforms it into the mundane with every glance, every step. 

“‘Stay in my arms,’ really?” murmurs Rich, his gaze never leaving the horn section of the mechanical band. “What is that old bastard playing at, making it so obvious.”

As the women take their place next to Lord Byron, Mary slides in behind me. 

“Did you see that Servant? So glamorous, like a fairy princess in the stories my Nana would tell me when I was a wee girl. Anyway, I’ve smoothed over everything with Lord Byron. He’s an incredible man. Are you having fun?” 

“Ummm. . .” Saying I’ve been to two parties in two nights sounds like a humblebrag. Last night was a pale imitation that could never stand up to the ragers you see in teen movies or CW shows. How Tolosa. On the other hand, we have this party where the noblemen act ignobly and the most powerful dress like we’re going to the beach. 

I’m an outsider. Like always, Nadine doesn’t fit. But if you’ll allow this outsider a word, at least the people in this party know who they are and what they want. Lord Byron may have told me that I was going to die while knowing fuck all about my life, but he said that right to my face. He didn’t ignore me then awkwardly huddle closer to his friends, tightening the circle in a passive-aggressive attempt to exclude. He didn’t mutter some token words about getting a beer with a guilty expression on his face because he wouldn’t come back. I can’t help but think that maybe these magi who are trying to kill each other are more genuine than the people I’m supposed to call my peers. 

“Yeah. . .” For the first time in my life, I feel included. Like I’m part of something bigger than myself and that my abilities mean I can make a valuable contribution to this ritual. “I think I really am enjoying myself.” It’s thanks to that bowl-cut priest and Laurent. . . especially Laurent. Society gives old people too much shit. I should message him. 

“It seems like Caster’s about to talk.” Mary sees Berserker out of the corner of her eye. “What’s _that_ doing here?” she spits out venomously to no one in particular. 

“O’ heroes hailing across the seas of time, I welcome you to this humble ballroom that my dear Master and his daughter, my dearest friend helped establish for us this evening. Truly, what a remarkable event they’ve put together. They deserve all the credit for tonight. And you too, my dear Masters and Servants, give yourselves a round of applause for having the courage to come out from your workshops and stand with us tonight.” She sounds like your typical local event organizer. Ever so gracious in thanking everyone involved no matter the contribution, and always making the focus of her words ‘you,’ and how ‘you all did this,’ ‘you all made this happen.’ These words don’t divert attention from herself but aim to reflect gratitude to come back to her with more grace, with more appreciation. She should host the annual marathon at Madonna. “Now, I have the pleasure of presenting the overseer of this Holy Grail War, Father Sancraid Phahn of the Assembly of the Eighth Sacrament.” 

We all clap as she steps down from the staircase turned stage. 

“She’ll be a fine prize,” I hear Archer murmuring to Rich next to him. I want to shoot them both a look, but the bowl cut priest has already started to speak.

“Thank you, Lord Byron for hosting this event this evening. I believe about twenty years ago, in a different Grail War in the far-east, a former overseer invited Masters to attend a meeting similar to this — only familiars showed up.” Everyone politely smiles. Rich audibly chuckles. “You are all brave souls, Masters and Servants alike. I do not doubt everyone in this ballroom has the resolve to fight to make their dearest wishes come true. But let it be known, from past experience, even the most illustrious, even the most well prepared may fall depending on the judgment of the Holy Grail. Yet the potency of this Grail cannot be denied. All seven classes have been represented and as further proof of our legitimacy even one of the founding families of the Holy Grail War has graced us with her presence. 

This is not the far-east backwater known as Fuyuki. This is not the counterfeit, heretical battlefield Snowfield. This is Tolosa, a Holy Land named after the boy bishop who selflessly refused his claim to the throne to meet the Lord’s call to service.

What we seek in Tolosa is not a Grail of the Magi. This Grail is my Holy Mother, the Holy Church’s, sin, and allowing seven Masters to congregate is her atonement. The Tolosa Grail is a mistake.” He takes a deep breath as he launches in exposition. “After the Third Grail War in the Far-East, Master of Assassin, Dioland left a puppet that contained enough information pertaining to the war and the make-up of the 726th Grail for it to be replicated, at least in form. The family and their allies sought the aid of the American government. Their success resulted in a plan to lay the foundations for the Snowfield Grail. I’m sure you all know the strength of the Church in this country: ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. . .’ Magecraft, which requires the establishment of magical foundations sometimes based on religions and also incorporates certain religious concepts to broaden concepts, is no exception to the law of the land. Therefore, the Church has found much success in its lobbying of the government to deny the mixing of magecraft and statecraft.” 

The magi present gaze on with grim faces. Lord Byron’s mustache twitches at the end of each sentence. Both of Rich’s hands are in tight fists. Why is the priest antagonizing them like that? He’s handing them the sore points of their own history in this land. Just who is he trying to inform? It has to be me. He knows that I’m a Magician’s Egg that I can see through all his bullshit and posturing to get the actual message, he’s trying to send. If that’s the case why all this needless ceremony? Dude, just come out and say it.

“With the government as an intermediary, the magi who wished to organize a Grail War and a Cardinal, representing the Church’s interest, brokered a deal. The magi formed a secret agency within the government and this Cardinal was given all the information collected by the Dioland family to prove the Snowfield Grail was not a holy relic. The Tolosa Grail is what that Cardinal and his supporters built with that information and a core embezzled from the Church’s treasury. After the debacle that was Snowfield, a single bishop who had also handled the clean-up of the final Fuyuki Grail War investigated the origins of the Snowfield Grail. He uncovered the Tolosa Grail as well as those who had invested their lives in the venture. The Church’s first instinct was to dismantle this Grail as quickly as possible, but the Tolosa Grail was almost ready to summon Servants. It would only need a few years and dismantling a magical furnace with enough magical energy to grant any wish. . . You are all magi, I’m sure you understand the risks. After much dialogue, the answer that my superiors came to was containment. We would let the Grail War run its course under the direction of an overseer. As a sign of good faith, a seat was offered to a member of the Clock Tower to respect our cooperation from the Third Fuyuki Grail War onward. The American government was also given a seat as they hold this land. The other Masters were chosen by the Grail. As this Grail was born from the Church, we believed it would mirror our values. You are those Masters. The Church has faith your wishes shall illuminate the world. 

Shortly before the start of the war, the bishop who uncovered the Tolosa Holy Grail conspiracy passed away. The team that he had left at the Tolosa Mission to oversee this Grail War, whether it be out of ambition, loss, or spite… obtained Command Spells and summoned a Servant. On behalf of the Church, I am sorry. I apologize that we did not select a better overseer. We have failed you. As a Servant can only defeat a Servant, I was given the honor and burden of Command Spells by the Grail so that Rider and I could defeat that rogue Master and Servant. I harbor no ambition for the Grail, I only want to ensure your Grail War proceeds in the manner that it should. Even with a Servant, I am a neutral party. We will neither harm nor aid any of you — all who seek shelter at my church will find it.” He ends his speech with an angelic smile.

I can almost hear the heavenly trumpets blessing the priest with the righteous fury to make war on those who have committed sacrilege against his faith. . . .

Too much free champagne, I need to pee.


	18. 17/ Fated Night

**17/ Fated Night**

My eyes finish adjusting to the darkness. The old man said good night vision is one of the most important skills in an Executor’s arsenal since most battles in the magecraft world are fought at night in rural areas far away from civilization. Like magi, those of us who have circuits can reinforce our eyes but that would give you away faster than just using your phone as a flashlight. 

Time to make your way up to the old farmhouse, Chris. 

The Ferrini Ranch Open Space. This parcel of land was donated to the county in the mid-nineties to extend Cardinal Peak’s nature reserve. The old Ferrini farmhouse became somewhat of a tourist attraction, but more than anything it’s a status symbol for the privileged of Tolosa who live in Ferrini Heights. Many of their sons and daughters attend my school. 

The farmhouse is built on a leyline adjacent to the fallen leyline at Cardinal Peak. The point they connect is to the east of the farmhouse grounds and must serve as the main axis for any bounded field that can stretch the entire estate. At the same time, containing that point means creating a plug, stagnating the leyline, dismantling any field created to protect it. Therefore, that point can’t be protected with magecraft. 

I know because I met with Lord Byron’s representatives, then helped them survey the area to acquire a temporary co-ownership and file the paperwork necessary to restore and renovate the farmhouse, including an easement to allow for public use when he wasn’t using the estate. 

That was a hard sell. The Mission argued that public access was in his best interest as a magus. A continuous flow of tourists, especially families coming to the open space for a tour of the house before a picnic offers mental constituents that can be captured and then absorbed through the leyline to strengthen the land — much like how the Tower of London functions, just happier. 

I approach the main axis, slip through the bounded field, cross the plain, and start climbing up the mansion.

Lord Byron’s Iselma is a branch family of the Lord of the Value. Other than the public information, the Church questioned spellcasters who were part of an assault unit for a formerly up and coming middle-eastern faux aristocratic family and a spy from the Jigmarie who owed the Church a favor over an incident in the Bay Area involving the Marble Trading Company to obtain most of his profile. In any case, most of Islema magecraft seems to be based on linking astrology with human engineering. In fact, it’s well known that Lord Byron’s played host to a sealing designated magus specializing in that area. If I can’t take down an automaton there’s no way I could fight against a Dead Apostle. Let’s keep climbing up this mansion. Luckily for me, most of the traps have been deactivated, most likely because they would all go off with that amount of magical energy swirling inside. 

Lord Byron offset those inner defenses by bolstering the ones surrounding the estate. There’s no way a Servant who didn’t attend this meeting could get into position to use an Anti-Fortress Noble Phantasm to mow down the entire estate without being detected. 

I swing onto a second-floor balcony and reinforce my hearing. Any traces of rudimentary magecraft should be hidden due to the Servants inside. I can’t hear the entire conversation, but I can make out snatches of Father Phahn explaining the history of the Tolosa Holy Grail to these Masters — why is that necessary? 

_“. . . Just before the start of the war, the bishop who brought the Tolosa Holy Grail to light passed away. . .”_

Why is he telling them about Dilo’s death? 

_“. . . The team that he had left at the Tolosa Mission to oversee this Grail War, whether it be out of ambition, loss, or spite. . . obtained Command Spells and summoned a Servant. . .”_

I — what? No. What? I — 

Someone from the Mission summoning a Servant is ridiculous. What is he going on about? It’s our job to protect this city against the Holy Grail War. No team member would actively go against that objective. Everyone in our little team has been vetted by Father Kelsey and sometimes even Cherry. I can’t think of a person who would — 

_“. . . I was given the honor and burden of these Command Spells by the Grail. . .”_

Something breaks. 

The overseer of the Holy Grail War that replaced me is a Master himself. More than that, he just announced his status in front of almost every single Master fighting the war. Sorry, I’m not sure I can process this right now. Not because what he said was too outlandish or that it was a betrayal of everything the Church stands for, but because I stepped back in shock onto a toy. A kid probably forgot about it when their family was visiting. That shouldn’t be an issue because I’m on the balcony and everyone inside is occupied with listening to a pontificating priest. 

But. . . what if it turned out that I’m not the only one outside the mansion? What if the moment my foot ground the toy into the stone balcony something moved a few balconies away — a few balconies too far to sense my presence but close enough one couldn’t dismiss what just happened as an innocuous sound. No, if the person on the other balcony is a magus then there’s no possibility they would dismiss something like that. The darkened figure turns towards me and I’m able to get a good glimpse of her face.

Teach me, Sunao-sensei Chapter Four: Heyo, you Executor-in-training bugs who aren’t even fit for the Asura’s Pit yet. It’s everyone’s favorite holy idol, Sunao. Yosh, let’s get this straight right here, right now. Faces. . . are hecka important if you wanna be a good Executor. Heretics come in all sizes and shapes, so you got to remember all of them as well as the ones they might change into. After today’s exercises, you’re going to be able to instantly recall the face of any cute girl you might come across. If you take longer than that bam, too late she’s already gone, you’re alone forever — got it? 

It doesn’t matter if the only light is from the inside the mansion, there should be more than enough to apply Sunao-sensei’s four rules like you had to do for everyone at school for the suggested extra credit. First, her fair hair frames a high forehead with the beginning of a few wrinkles — mid to late thirties. Second, from the shape of her face and sharp features, she seems as WASPy as everyone else in this town. Next is from her demeanor. . . that doesn’t matter if she just started burning magical energy through her eyes. Okay, come on, the absence of an emotional reaction is always a sign of combat experience. Does that really matter when she’s reaching for a revolver? 

I can hear the audio that plays when you get a failing grade on the online Sunao-sensei course. But I have enough information — a freelancer who uses a gun.

You’ve trained for this Chris, so come on already. Doesn’t Cherry always tell you magecraft is about finding the core and then swapping it as quickly as possible? 

So, what’s important? What’s important right this instant? 

If either of us were to let our circuits catch alight, the Servants or Masters inside the mansion would immediately sense us. That’s something both of us want to avoid. I’m not sure about her magical capabilities, but neither of us is going to be able to use our circuits to functionally stop our subjective time to perform any complex calculations. I can see it in her reinforced eyes that she knows this as well. These few seconds before we commit to actions will be the only thinking time we’re allowed. The second important thing is the sound of gunfire will draw attention to both of us, meaning, she can’t attack me right now. Her best option is to predict my attack and immediately counter or escape. So, I’ll — 

The beginnings of a thin black blade materializes from the cross-shaped hilt I draw from my robe. In the next moment, I’ll use the ledge of this balcony to propel myself across the gap and use the momentum to subdue my opponent. The magical energy required to materialize a single Black Key is only slightly more than what it takes to reinforce one’s hearing. I hope Lord Byron’s Caster doesn’t have specialized magical energy detection abilities. Right, this is the best option available to me. There’s no going back. My body fully commits, springing into action but — 

My opponent finishes turning around as a silencer materializes onto the barrel of the revolver. I. . . grit my teeth. Combat robes are made with kevlar and lined with protective sigils so they can easily defend against a rain of bullets from a submachine gun. Those are only for experienced Executors heading into a demonic battlefield to extinguish damned souls. As someone whose combat training consisted of mostly using an Ash Lock because he was less than proficient with Black Keys these robes are equipped with the minimum number of sigils. No matter, I’ll sacrifice the use of my off arm instead of taking a bullet to the face and subdue her before she’s able to fire again. But that tattoo on her shooting hand is a Command Spell. The moment the shot misses my forehead, she’ll call for her Servant. I can’t worry about that now; I’ve already committed to the attack. More than that, I’m no longer the overseer so there’s no issue with attacking a Master. As a member of the Church, there’s nothing wrong about killing a heretic. 

She narrows her eyes. Go on, pull the trigger already. If you don’t. . . . 

Her eyes widen as her grip on the weapon slackens.

“What?” But I can feel it as well. Behind me is a burst of magical energy making whatever was utilized to materialize my Black Key and her silencer paltry in comparison. 

A silver slash. 

Using all my strength, I twist my body in mid-air. Sparks fly as the saber clashes against my Black Key, lighting up my attacker’s face. Its painted features are partly scratched off — you can see the wood fibers splintering off, almost as if a certain someone had stepped on it. 

Oh. . . I was wrong when I said there were no defenses other than the bounded field. There must be toys like this one scattered at key points, acting as sentries. Either my stepping on it or the magical energy from materializing my Black Key must have set it off. 

The arm holding the Black Key trembles. The wooden doll is stronger than a regular human. It wouldn’t be too much of a problem if I could use both my hands, but my off arm was already in position to take that Master’s bullet. Neither would it be too much of a problem if both my feet were firmly planted on the ground because I could divert the attack and retreat. 

My mid-air defense may have saved my back from a nasty gash, but I lose the exchange as well as all momentum. That is to say, I’m thrown away from the mansion towards the ground. 

The moment I’m thrown away I hear a silenced gunshot. By attacking one of the sentries she triggered the alarm or perhaps the alarm was already triggered the moment the wooden doll’s magical formula was activated and she only fired to protect herself. 

Large volumes of chaotically expelled magical energy break my fall. It’s an incredibly amateurish, inefficient technique but there wasn’t enough time to reinforce anything. It’s okay if I’ve only taken this much damage, I’ll just activate the curse of self-healing. Right now, I’ve got to start running because wooden soldiers have started to swarm the foot of the mansion. 

Something filled with magical energy leaps off the second-floor balcony. That must be the other Master. Why hasn’t she used her Command Spell to summon her Servant yet? No matter how strong she is or how powerful of a Mystic Code that revolver might be she won’t last against a small platoon of mechanical dolls. 

I’m no expert in any type of creation, but even I can feel that some of the dolls have been refurbished with pre-17th-century parts. Those I won’t be able to stand up against them with just Black Keys. Even with the Ash Lock, it’ll be a struggle against more than four. That’s the Iselma family for you. 

We both start sprinting across the field down the hill towards the gap in the bounded field. After we slip through the gap, we can retreat into the shrubbery. 

Automatons generally come in three categories: 1) those that are directly controlled by the magus; Lord Byron was inside the mansion, entertaining his guests when the automaton attacked me. 2) Those that have an internal energy source; automatons of this nature are costly. It would take more than a fortune to equip fodder with magecraft engines. 3) Those that are being supplied magical energy from an external source, like a leyline. The land, number, and actions mean the third type is the most likely. If they’re tied to the bounded field and siphoning the magical energy from the leyline, their efficiency should rapidly decrease the moment I get out of Lord Bryon’s territory.

Proper Executors are capable of maintaining a pace of about thirty miles per hour in bad terrain without the use of magecraft. Not only are we under bad terrain, the slope of the hill means any step could lead to me losing my balance — so almost a minute. Reinforcing myself would increase my speed, but I have a hunch these wooden soldiers are tracking magical energy. 

I take a glimpse behind. . . that’s strange. That Master is running about three fourths my speed. She’s definitely reinforcing herself, but what a weak flow of magical energy. There’s a constant tug of war between Master and Servant for magical energy. Could it be that manifesting her Servant is taking up so much magical energy she barely has enough to reinforce herself? In that case, why doesn’t she call her Servant? I see, it’s because even at her speed she’s still faster than the wooden soldiers. 

The wooden soldiers continue their steady march. The fact that they prioritize their balance over speed is a testament of their maker. These dolls work as a collective rather than individually, intimidating their opponents with sheer numbers. Outnumbered, the target’s only option is to flee. 

In a cock-assured rush, the prey eventually loses their balance and are swept under the advancing line. If they do escape the line of wooden soldiers, they would be met with a bounded field supported by this land. Without knowing about the gap or without a Servant to brute force through the bounded field, one has almost no chance of escaping. It’s almost like instead of trying to keep people out, Lord Byron is trying to keep something from escaping. 

Ceremonial trumpets and the thundering of wooden hooves shake that thought from my brain. The sea of advancing wooden soldiers parts, allowing lacquered horses to break into a mad gallop. Each horse is hitched to a carriage with a single driver. No, the carriage is part of the horse. To make matters worse, the carriages instantaneously magically modify themselves into war chariots carrying two more wooden soldiers armed with muskets. The line of wooden soldiers is the signaling beacon, and the cavalry are the shock troops. There’s no time to ask myself if this is really art and proceed to attempt to break down the mystery. Legs, don’t fail me now. You know this mountain better than anyone else. 

“Damn!” 

The ground in front of me explodes. A spray of hard mountainous soil that hasn’t tasted rain for almost a year cuts half of my view. 

Don’t turn around, Chris. Keep running, you’ll make it. There’s no point in zigzagging. The dolls started firing musket balls, sure. But lead balls don’t make that kind of impact — no, they’re more like enchanted lead bubbles. The moment they pop, they spread their magical payload with the force of a grenade. These musket balls aren’t enough to kill heretics, but they’ll slow them down so they face a calvary stampede. It only looks like they’re firing haphazardly, but they’re just trying to scare you into making a mistake or goad you into fighting back. You’re no match for them. . . for now. That could change the moment you ignite the magical energy into your body. But I know, the moment you reinforce anything is when you die. These are dolls — they can’t see, but they can sense magical energy. That’s why you have to keep running, as is. You can’t die here. 

But what about that Master? With our head start she might make it — fifty-fifty, no… forty-sixty. I don’t want to know if the forty is a success or failure, because can’t you change any probability of her surviving to zero with the Black Key in my hand?

Executors are professional heretic hunters. She’s a Master attempting to wage war in this town. 

I don’t think there is anything wrong with killing her before she’s able to hurt anyone. Protecting the sanctity of the Grail War isn’t my business anymore, so eliminating as many heretics as possible has become something I should do. 

You won’t throw that Black Key though because you realize it’s not that she won’t summon her Servant, she can’t. The fact that she’s out here means that her Servant is inside that mansion, mingling with everyone else. The moment she summons her Servant with her Command Spell is the moment they realize this Master didn’t attend their meeting because she was too busy breaking through the defenses. It isn’t too difficult to figure out what her aim was. That’s right, the reason I didn’t choose the balcony where she laid in wait was because there was a gap in the curtains where you could actually see the going-ons below and therefore anyone who looked up could see you as well. That was her perch. She was using her Servant as a distraction to create an opportunity to kill one or more Masters. 

Geez, tonight has been a complete failure. Not only have I been unable to find any information about the Dead Apostle, but I’ve also unwittingly become entrenched in this Holy Grail War once again. 

But it’s not your fault, is it? A little voice whispers in my ear. This is just the way that the world works. Interlopers like yourself earnestly search for meaning and end up destroying lives. No one’s truly at fault if both parties are sincere. Equally honest flames, we burn, aiming to merely shed light but before we know it the entire world is razed until we are both no more than effervescent cinders. How could one not disagree,

object, 

reject? 

Truthfully, Chris — 

_— All of us, no matter who we are, are merely ~~foam~~ idiotic, pathetic, weak human beings._

So. . . you. . . just. . . can’t, okay? That isn’t something Chris Frampton would do. His grudge should be against the Dead Apostles that killed his family. Even if the Church teaches that heresy must be expunged, he should be confused about his position because the woman who helped raise him is a magus herself. 

Okay? 

I dash through the gap in the bounded field and continue a few meters to the edge of the small forest between the Ferrini Open Space and Cardinal’s Peak Reserve. The Master manages to clamber through that gap a few seconds after me. I had expected to already be among the trees when she slipped through the gap. It’s not that she became faster. There’s a trail of smoke behind her that sends magical energy detection abilities, mine included, into disarray. She’s a freelancer who uses alchemy then. 

Behind her, one of the carriages reaches the edge of the bounded field and abruptly stops as if all its strings had been cut. 

She raises her revolver as she gets up, but I take the initiative and throw the Black Key in my hand, leaving myself without a weapon. Like an arrow, the black blade draws a slight arc, but the Master’s reactions are too quick. Or rather, she had already predicted that I was aiming for the hand holding the weapon. 

Right, I made it too obvious that I was considering throwing my Black Keys at you when I freaked out on the hill there. I’m too easy to read because I don’t have much combat experience. I know that. That’s why the moment I threw the blade, I scrambled into the forest before you could fire and hid behind a thick tree trunk.

She slowly approaches me with her revolver drawn, ready to shoot the moment I make a move. In that case, it’s time to play my trump card. 

“I’m not part of this Holy Grail War!” I shout from my hiding place. “I’m an Executor-in-training tasked with exterminating a Dead Apostle in this town. This has been a terrible misunderstanding!”

Silence for a moment and then, “If that’s true, why were you at a meeting for Masters?” 

Someone told me that one of the Masters might be a Dead Apostle. Say it, say it, just answer her already. 

“Well? Can you answer that?” 

Oh. . . I. . . can’t say those words. 

My heart bubbles. These aren’t bubbles you see at the bottom of the pot when boiling water. This is skimmed beer foam or ephemeral sea foam that continuously piles onto itself until the imaginary friction magically ignites to produce a sooty flame — the switch magi use to convert themselves into machines that produce magical energy. The heat that fills this vessel drives my senses beyond infinity, instantly sending my circuits into overheat. 

“You —!” Her finger is on the trigger, but she’ll be a second too slow — 

“Set!” I vault from cover to intercept her. 

With that single-action incantation my magical energy sears a magic formula in the broadest foundation in the world. The only mystery allowed for members of the Church is the Baptismal Sacrament, but within the foundation known as The Teachings of the Lord are spells that can be engraved into the hilt of a Key of Providence to create additional effects like burning, petrification, or desiccation. Since this is evidently magecraft, it’s looked down upon by the members of the Church and rarely used — except for this spell.

Like black lightning running through the night, the Black Key picks itself from the ground and once again aims for the hand holding the gun. Too late, she’ll be too late. The expression on her face tells the entire story. Even if she twists her entire body to dodge the surprise attack, she’ll lose her footing allowing me enough of an opening to subdue her. Her only other option is to. . . wait, really? 

Her sharp eyes narrow even further. She’s going to take the attack. 

She concentrates her magical energy into her hands and then increases its density — the classic counter spell for dealing with point-based magical attacks. The magical energy of both spells will clash and the effect evaporates. But, while the Black Key’s blade might be formed with magical energy, it’s still semi-solid. A technique like that isn’t going to — 

I see. . . That’s insane. 

She doesn’t care if the Black Key pierces her hand because all she needs is a single shot. Then this is just a replay of the events of the balcony. I’ll just sacrifice this left arm so — 

It’s a split second that decides life and death, but a split second was too long for the being that just materialized.

It lands, sending rippling licks of magical energy throwing both the other Master and me off-balance before our skirmish can conclude. She raises her gun. I pull out another Black Key hilt from my robe, but the instant we look at the monster, the blood is drained from both our faces. 

His pressure isn’t as overwhelming as Archer’s where it seems like you’re constantly trying to hold up the sky in his presence. This is human calamity incarnate — a divinity born from glorious despair, the blood of one’s opponents, and righteous conflict. Servant — 

“— Lancer. . .” the Master next to me finishes my thought. 

In the face of this spirit, basically on the level of an elemental, we can’t remember what our misunderstanding was. Instead — 

Lancer flexes his almost golden muscles that ripple as he poses. He looks at me for a moment and then lowers his eyes so they meet the Master’s Command Spell. 

My shaking legs are on the verge of collapsing. If I wasn’t regulating my body, my heart and bladder would have both exploded. Worst of all, my stomach starts eating itself over and over again. Run. I need to get away right now. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t a Dead Apostle. This is more like a hurricane that made landfall during a junior high sporting event. 

Right, if I run away. . . if I run away, Lancer isn’t going to come after me. He just wants that Master. I’m no longer part of the Holy Grail War so there’s no reason to stay here any longer. There is nothing that I can do. 

The image of a girl crying on a football field flashes through my mind. No, not that. 

_“You’re not a lot of things. But, I thought you were at least **that** type of person.”_

What type of person is Chris Frampton? What reason does he have for holding his old man’s Black Keys? What did that boy who died want to become? Didn’t you say. . . didn’t you vow to at least be true to that boy you owed everything to? 

Words I mumbled to a priest who sat by my bedside a lifetime ago bubble back to mind. That priest might no longer be here, but those words and the feelings that should have been contained in those distant bubbles will always be there as long as I affirm my past.

I know what Chris Frampton would do.

I know what I have to do. 

“By the order of this Command Spell —!” 

In the next moment, that Master’s chest will be pierced before she’s able to activate her Command Spell. With a second swing, the leaves of all the shrubs in a five-meter radius are going to be stained with my splattered brains. This ‘fight’ which will last less than a second, solely depends on whether or not I’m able to buy her enough time to complete her count.

A spear so large its leaf blade is enough to impale the torso of an entire cow is thrust with ferocious technique that threads the needle between raw power and conditioned finesse. The motion is so fast the spear is little more than a blur to reinforced eyes. There is no other description for the wielder other than a god of war. 

But even a divine attack isn’t difficult to block if you already know where it is going to strike. All I’ve got to do is make sure my circuits which are rotating at top speed don’t burn out in the next second. It doesn’t matter if the magical energy is from my own life force or the air’s because all that matters right now is making sure these two Black Keys don’t break during the exchange. 

“Hm —” Lancer lets a surprised grunt at my resistance. 

The edge of the spear seemingly swallows the two black blades that I swung with all my strength. The alien sound of Black Keys reinforced so they’re almost as hard as a gemstone grinding against and then yielding to the edge of a Servant’s spear half-heartedly thrust rings into the trees. No matter how much supernatural strength I put into these Black Keys, they can’t stop that attack. This a Servant we’re fighting against. So delay it. Delay it for as long as — 

— The keys snap. 

I’m sent flying only to be stopped by the lower trunk of a stray tree. The impact permeates throughout my body. The real damage is my arms ripping and tearing in multiple places as if they had been cut a thousand times — the equivalent exchange for reinforcing a part of your body with more magical energy than it can handle. I can’t feel them; are they broken? That doesn’t matter right now because. . . 

“Come, Berserke —” 

That was the amount of time I was able to buy — not enough. 

The bough will pierce her heart before she’s able to get that last syllable out. 

This entire night’s struggle has been for nothing. 

I. . . 

As quickly as the spear was thrust, a tongue of fire repelled the leaf blade. That tongue, held aloft, is a red, thin double-edged blade with a smaller blade jutting out from the bottom of the golden hilt. It’s swung so quickly that I can only follow the trail of embers. No matter how fast the flame might be, the bough manages to catch and then match each blow. But the embers from each arc of the blade linger longer, their sooty red is now a warm orange. I can even feel the heat from here. I’m not sure if it’ll take ten or a hundred more blows but eventually, the fire will overwhelm the bough. 

The Servants break apart. 

“That boy. . . is under my protection.” 

The feral god of war takes in the opposing Servant and then my crumpled figure before grunting to himself and retreating into the forest. The Servant in front of me makes no attempt to pursue. 

I look at the Master who keeps her eye on the Servant. When she was using the Command Spell, she distinctly was trying to say Berserker. That swordplay is not that of a Berserker. 

The trough of this hill is completely silent, almost as if the clamor of just a few minutes ago never existed. It’s obvious. There does not need to be a wind to draw open the curtain of clouds to let the moonlight filter in. That figure is bright enough to serve as her own moon, reflecting all the distant lights from the suburbs below.

She turns to face me and time stops. 

Those fervent yet troubled eyes are the centerpiece of a bouquet of features so delicate they look as though a cosmic clockmaker took the time to painstakingly craft each one before binding Its creation in mythril.

She bites her lower lip. 

I bite my tongue for the words can’t, won’t come out. 

This scene, it only lasts for a second, but it is as sharp as her demonic sword so it pierces my wavering consciousness and cuts through all the years I’ve been alive. 

This is special. You must remember this. 

Even if you fall down to hell.

Even if you lose Chris Frampton.

Engrave this one scene onto your soul so that neither foam may drag it out to sea nor flame may incinerate it beyond recognition. 

Why? 

Because it’s the first time you have ever thought a machine looked beautiful.

*****

**Presage Seaweed**

**~Interlude~**

The doorbell rang as Cherry entered the cafe. The dimmed light that made reading slightly a chore, the empty plates left on one or two tables, and the coffee aroma that hung like a persistent smog were all so similar to one from her hometown one could say it was the same cafe. Cherry ignored the unwelcome pangs of slight homesickness and made her way to the bar. She wasn’t sure if he would be here tonight — he could be out at an Italian restaurant, flirting.

The last time they saw each other face to face was. . . a year ago? She went back home to check if everything was okay with the house. But Cherry writes, she writes to him every month. She was old fashioned that way, magi usually are. So what she won’t tolerate is meeting in this café. It’s a cheat — a singularity that shouldn’t exist in this world or any other world. Say that as she might, she loved their pies. 

Ooops, remember, you’re on a diet. It was your cheat day on Monday. You’re going Keto this year. Last year was Paleo. Cherry’s tried them all. She hadn’t lost any weight long-term, but she’s reached enlightenment. A scale was a woman’s arch-nemesis. Like a prayer prayer she scrawls a number in her diary every night. There was a self-mutilating sacredness to it that you couldn’t find with a health app. 

A waitress came to ask her if she wanted anything. Cherry fidgeted awkwardly for a second wondering if she could convince herself on getting an advance on next week’s cheat day but stay strong! You can do this! In your teens, you made the mistake of assuming you could diet before summer to fit into your swimsuit. Naive. Too naive, girl. Every Instagram model you follow regularly posts that the foundation of a swimsuit body requires you to start during winter. Winter is when all the calories pile up. You can’t fall for that trap — not this year. 

Cherry sighed after the waitress left. 

“Heyo Annherbe-deluxe, Cherry.” 

A little girl clambered onto the seat next to her. 

“Who taught you that, Curie?” 

She pointed to a lonely flip phone completely left behind by the times next to the register, “He said it’s the normal greeting here.” 

Cherry gently smiled. Even if it makes no sense to her, that didn’t mean she should let it show on her face. “I’m really happy to see you again, Curie. You’ve grown quite a bit.” 

The little girl jumped into Cherry’s arms. She was cold like crystal, not to mention you could be eaten at any moment and not realize it. No, that’s wrong, Cherry told herself. There’s warmth there, there has to be. We’ve spent so much time together there had to be something beyond — 

“I missed you too, Cherry. The Detective has as well. He reads all your letters you know and stays up thinking about what to write back. He’s not good at admitting it though.” Curie nodded knowingly.

“How is he?” 

Curie opened her mouth but before she could get any words out, she was interrupted.

“Well, well, well it seems like someone hasn’t lost any weight at all.” 

That’s his way of saying ‘I’m glad you look healthy.’ 

“You look well too, Nii-san.” She slipped in her native tongue. 

He instinctively stroked the tiny scar on the back of his head as he took a seat next to Curie. “Scram, girl. Go play with the cats or annoy the waitresses.” 

Curie poked her tongue out in reply and ran off. 

“I’m glad that you two are still getting along so well.” 

“You call that getting along? That brat’s more trouble than she’s worth. Should have left her in South America when I had the chance.” 

Some part inside of her knows that she can’t forgive her brother for all the things he’s done. But even if they weren’t related by blood, he was still her brother and she wishes for his happiness, so when he says things like that they help unwind the wires in her head. 

“What about the kid you’re looking after? The one with the long, fancy name.” 

“Chris? He’s. . . he’s a good kid.” 

“That’s just a polite way of saying he’s messed up but doesn’t show it.”

She ignored that, “He comes here often. Have you talked to him?”

“Yeah. He’s a good kid.” The Detective called the waitress and ordered a nitro cold brew, this time, less cinnamon. “Why are you here, Sakura? If you’re after news about Rider and Emiya, you can call them yourself.” 

“I’m really proud of you, Nii-san.” That stopped him cold in his tracks. “When you dropped out of university, saying it was too easy and everyone was an idiot I was really worried about your future. We all were. But ever since you came back from South America with Curie and started your own private investigation firm you’ve. . . you’ve been doing better.”

“Haah? Don’t be impertinent. I don’t need your validation, failure. Don’t get me wrong, I love that you decided to let the Matou family die, but a failure is still a failure.” 

Cherry smiled. “If you would let me finish Nii-san. I recently heard there was another up-and-coming private investigator duo from Mifune. A man about your age with only one working eye, and a twenty-year-old beauty rumored to have ties with the Yakuza?” 

The Detective snorted at that dismissively, “You sure love your gossip magazines, Sakura. Fumbling idiots. Could give any Manzai duo a run for their money.”

“Oh, I heard they were rated as one of the top agencies in Japan?”

“Did you take the time to check who is rated the top in the country, idiot.” 

“The top-rated private investigator office in the country, wow, you’ve come so far! So that means you’ll be able to find some information about someone for me?” 

“What? I don’t have the time to do something like that.” 

“Nii-san, I’m horrified. The top private detective Japan won’t even help his own little sister?”

Matou Shinji looked at his sister in disbelief. 

Matou Sakura steadied her determined gaze, offering a forceful half-smile and a wrinkled brow, as if trying to make her brother eat an apple slice. 

“Okay, who am I looking for,” he mumbled before turning away. Like so many before him, he crumbled under that determined gaze. 

Cherry took out a folded printout from her purse. Church profiles were usually small novellas, but this was a single page. At the top left corner was a photo of a strawberry blond woman with a high forehead and sharp features. 

“Amelia Levitt, a pediatrician who worked at Snowfield Central Hospital, patients include. . . Snowfield? Isn’t that the town where that fake Holy Grail War that basically destroyed the area took place?”

“Oh, it seems like Senpai has been telling you things that he shouldn’t.”

The Detective looked Cherry straight in the eye. “This woman. . . she’s a Master, isn’t she? And you, Sakura, you’re a Master too, aren’t you?” 

“What? I. . .” 

“Don’t lie to me. Who would use concealer on their hand to hide a Command Spell? I might not have magic circuits but don’t treat me like I’m a fucking idiot!” 

“Yes Nii-san, I’m the Master of Saber.” 

The Detective closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “This isn’t about Amelia Levitt, is it? Even you aren’t dumb enough to ask me to investigate an American. This about this kid isn’t it?” 

He pointed to the only name that sounds Japanese on the profile. 

Tsubaki Kuruoka. 

“They should learn to write names properly. What’s this. . .” he looked closer at the page. “Well she’d be a teenager now. What this kid got to do with your shitshow.” 

“The Kuruoka family are a family of magi who helped establish the Snowfield Grail. . .” 

The Detective interrupted, “She was a Master, then. What happened to her?”

“That’s what I’d like you to find out.” Cherry folded her arms on the table. 

“She is. . . was American, you’re in America. I’m in Japan. What do you think I can do?” 

“The Kuruoka family did more than just help establish the Snowfield Grail system, Nii-san. They also took part of the Holy Grail system and magecraft that utilized insects.” 

He immediately broke out in a cold sweat. She knew what she was asking of him. He was told he was the true heir to the family; that was why he was given access to all the grimoires in the forbidden library to peruse at his pleasure. He was given the privilege to learn his family’s secrets because he would pass them down. That privilege was his pride, his assurance that he was better than the masses that sat in the same classroom as he did. Later, it would turn into his greatest shame. And now? 

That young boy who made himself a makeshift robe and wand almost drowned in the mystery he lusted for — a wig saved his life. 

That aimless, bitter young man who couldn’t stand his family’s ruin set forth to retrieve a grimoire his sister sold in an attempt to rid the demonic fog clouding his heart and was almost consumed by the mystery he wished to be initiated into — a crystal trinket saved his life. 

So, the question isn’t ‘and now,’ it must be ‘so now?’ 

“Alright, whatever, I’ll check my notes and my contacts for information about this Kuruoka. You. . .” He folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his breast pocket. “If you get yourself killed that’s your own problem. Also, it’s also up to you to tell everyone else you’re part of this magical shitshow again. I’m not your messenger boy.”

“One more thing Nii-san.” 

“Something else?” he asked grumpily. “You really have no respect for your brother.” 

“Are you still in touch with Sajyou Ayaka?” 

He shivered at the name then protectively stroked his luscious seaweed locks, reassuring himself this was his natural hair. Yet, no matter how smooth, bouncy, or real his wavy hair might be, he can still feel her malicious razor gliding over his naked scalp. 

“No, why? I think she went to Romania or somewhere else in Europe after she graduated.” 

“I got my hands on some security footage of Snowfield. She, or at least someone who looks like her, was present. Do you happen to know anyone who might have her contact information?” 

“I think she used to hang out with that trio of track team girls. That means I have to deal with that idiot Makidera, again. Fine, fine. Anything else?”

“No, that’s everything. Thank you, Nii-san. Please take care of Curie and yourself.” 

Sakura’s full smile was almost too perfect. 

Shinji knew the shadow lurking behind that smile. It was underneath him when he tried to rape her.

He couldn’t make up for that day. He couldn’t forget that day. 

The waitress finally arrived with his iced coffee in a mason jar. Shinji grabbed the handle the moment it was set down but put the drink back down the moment he met his sister’s eyes. There was something he forgot to say. 

“Hey, Sakura.” 

“Nii-san?” 

“Don’t get yourself killed.” 

**~Interlude Out~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 – End
> 
> Volume 1 Servant Profiles: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1lasrzpdZlRZuN3damoffVr7bhmKOsjjh/view?usp=sharing  
> Volume 1 Participant Reports: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1aT2tUAt1rJ14t6Jo_nqngFW2SNmv-a3A/view?usp=sharing 


	19. Afterword

**Afterword**

Thank you for reading the first volume of Fate/Mythologie. I’d like to further thank Raff for proof-reading everything and offering ideas as well.

“To the next ten years…”

What did those words promise? What did those words actually bring?

Fate/Mythologie came about in an attempt to fill an empty niche. The romance fiction of Kinoko Nasu has exploded almost a decade ago into multiple spin-offs, the most popular of which is Fate/Grand Order. Yet, at least in the English speaking community, fanfiction consists of the same plots with the same ideas and the same characters. That is to say, in the decade so much has happened, yet so little of it has been used. A lot of this is due to the language barrier which is very understandable. But a lot of it has to do with finding satisfaction in the familiar. I hope you found something thrilling into stepping into Tolosa, a world beyond Chaldea, Fuyuki, and medieval Camelot.

This story is set after Fate/Strange Fake which takes place in a “world where anything can happen” that includes both the Dead Apostle Ancestors and the Heroic Spirit summoning system. The Strange Fake world is all but confirmed to be from Himuro no Tenchi: Fate/School Life which follows a modified version of Heaven’s Feel, which the author calls HF 1.5. At the time of writing this, Strange Fake is on volume 5. I’m not sure if there are going to be any major discrepancies with the events of later volumes, but considering this is fanfiction, I’m sure those can be brushed aside rather easily.

At the writing of this afterword, Chapter 4 of Mythologie hasn’t been released yet, but the second POV character Nadine is pretty much taken from the movie The Edge of Seventeen with some modifications. After watching that movie, I felt as her essence or at least the writer/director’s message behind her as a character was something that I needed to use for this project. At the same time, I wanted to address things that I don’t think that movie went in-depth enough due to the limitations of the medium. I hope you look forward to her relationship with Mary and their future development.

In regards to that as well as the setting and world view of Mythologie, I have always turned to the commentary from the first volume of Fire Girl -

_The relative importance and gravity among novels is generally divided into three segments._

_The story made for the story’s sake._

_The story made for one’s own sake._

_The story made for the reader’s sake._

_How this balance is dealt with depends on the story’s theme._

Without a doubt, Mythologie is the most selfish thing that I’ve written to date. The setting, the cast, and the themes have all been egoistically chosen and molded. I believe all fanfiction writing attempts to do so. But the most important thing to me is portraying how each character justifies themselves in relation to this setting - their subjective truth that no one can deny no matter what’s written in the glossary of a materials book. That is the story I want to create for the reader’s sake.

Once again, thank you very much for reading this work of mine. I hope you were able to enjoy it.

06-23-2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fate/Mythologie Volume 1: Palingenesis/805 – End


	20. 18/ Just Peachy

**18/Just Peachy**

_43 - Peach Cream Ice (Crème de Péches)_

She was born in a country that plunged headfirst into a long depression while still feeling the hunger pangs of one of the largest famines in history. 

_— Cut 12 peaches in halves, crack the stones and take out the kernels._

The men drank, the women wept, and the children got sick. Each of them dreamed of sailing to a New World for a chance at a better life. 

In this age of egalitarian scarcity, a girl was born. 

She was like any other girl. Another hungry mouth to feed, another dirty body to clothe, another useless girl who needed a groom. Her parents never wanted her, but they were Catholic, you see. They didn’t call it being pro-life back then. They were just. . . poor, like most people in the ‘old country.’ So they gave the girl to her grandmother. 

_— Put them to cook with half a pint of water and 4 ounces of sugar._

The girl loved the Nana who raised her. 

The girl loved the people she’d meet going into town.

The girl loved the shopkeepers who would give her a little extra, knowing she only had her Nana. 

The girl loved her hometown. . . so she was painfully aware. 

_— When tender mix a little liquid saffron or apricot yellow (p. 63) with the fruit and a few drops of vanilla, Pass through the tammy cloth or hair sieve._

In the fields. 

In the houses. 

And for those especially unlucky, in the cribs. 

_— Put the pint of cream in a pan over the fire and let it come to the boil, and then pour it onto the sugar yolks (a quarter of a pound of castor sugar, and 8 yolks of eggs) in a basin and mix well._

In her era, disease was an inevitable postscript to daily life. . 

No one knew exactly where it came from. 

“To filth!” the men would shout over the first round. 

“The miasma!” the men would sometimes cry after the eighth. 

“Water. . . please. . .” the men would groan the morning after.

_— Return it to the pan and keep it stirred over the fire till it thickens and clings well to the spoon, but do not let it boil._

But there was one iron-clad rule they all lived by — the strong did not get sick.

The girl was strong. 

_— Pass it through a tammy, or hair sieve, or strainer._

Only the strong survived the voyage from the old country to the New World. 

Penniless potential immigrants huddled in the bowels of an overcrowded ship. With haunted eyes, they watched each other fall to sickness and expire only to be dumped into the cold black sea. 

_— Add this purée to 1.5 pints of custard. Let it cool._

Even in this hell, everything was the same. 

Surrounded by disease. Surrounded by filth. Surrounded by death. As always, the girl was alone. 

_— Take Patent Freezer and lift the pan from the tub. Put pounded ice in the tub with a depth of about 1 to 1.5 inch, according to the quantity of cream, etc, to be frozen, and throw the pounded ice half its weight of freeze or rough salt and mix it with the pounded ice. Replace pan on the pivot in the tub._

She had no doubt that she would survive the two-week voyage. 

She was strong, you see. 

Born into poverty and abandoned by her parents at fourteen years of age, she held no romantic illusions about the world. All she wanted was the opportunity to be given just compensation for her work. 

_— Pour your cream, etc, into the pan through the little door in the lit and turn the hand._

What she didn’t understand was that everyone else on that ship was just as strong as she was. 

What she didn’t understand was that everyone else on that ship wanted exactly the same thing as she did. 

What she didn’t understand was — 

_— Observe, there is no need to pack ice and salt around the pan, but merely to put it on the bottom of the tube under the pan._

Even in the New World, the poor got sick. That’s just what happened to the poor. 

The newborn down the street.

The couple in their building. 

The elderly man down the hall. 

And by the Grace of God, they would either recover or be taken to the next world. 

It was a mundane, everyday occurrence that almost began to mean nothing to the girl as she became a woman, for disease did not touch the wealthy middle-class whom she cooked for. 

_— After turning the handle for 2 or 3 minutes, examine the progress of the freezing by looking through the door in the link._

“It’s Sunday, Mary. I’ve been good all week. You’re going to make it aren’t you — peach ice-cream?” 

“Ya disturbing my work, dearie. Mr. Warren’s going to be ragin’ if he finds you in here.” 

“Please let me stay and learn, Mary. I want to be one of those ‘new women’ Mummy always talks about and make my own living like you do!” 

_— When partly frozen, half a pint of whipped cream slightly sweetened may be added to each pint of custard._

Disease was a natural disaster, like a hurricane or a flood. Blood paid for due to the inadequacies in governmental response, public health systems, or cultural practices. Mary’s world was covered in disease. If the visitor was truly a Doctor as he claims, he should know that, so — 

“Madam. . . Ummm. . . what I would like to say is. . .” he cleared his throat to regurgitate some more courage. “Please be so kind as to submit your fluids for examination.”

Why ask Mary? She had never been sick. 

— When the cream is sufficiently frozen, hold the pan with one hand and unscrew the handle and lift off the crossbar and lid. 

An older Mary sits on a chair looking over a large river as the sun sets. Wrapped in a crocheted blanket, her dirty, paunchy face and glazed eyes reflect the waning sunlight. There’s none of the fire that she brings to each expression or gesture, just a sad acceptance that she will never reach that distant sprawling metropolis making its first attempts at conquering the skyline. 

This must be where she left her soul. 

She left a country of disease in a boat filled with disease, only to arrive in a port city plagued with the same diseases, and somehow made something of herself. 

Mary was strong. She didn’t get sick. 

I think. . . that was her pride. 

That’s why her employers trusted her to cook the decadent dishes the nouveau riche used as cultural currency in their attempts to become accepted into the upper echelons of late 19th century New York society. 

So, I can’t help but wonder how. . . how did this proud and fussy Irish immigrant who made peach ice cream that was to die for become trapped on this island for sick people? 

— Serve cold and enjoy. 

No, it doesn’t matter.

***** 

I don’t usually shower in the morning, but I got home so late that I went to sleep without taking off my makeup. Big mistake. I don’t need my skin looking blotchier than it already does, so I roll out of bed, putting the finishing crumples on last night’s dress.

Mary warned me, but I was too tired to listen. Now she’s reminding me she warned me as I wipe my mouth and check the shirt I’m wearing out today for any splatter. After rinsing my mouth, I brush my teeth. Luckily, the buzz of the electric toothbrush drowns out most of her scolding. She’s so persistent, continuing behind the door as I’m using the toilet. 

“Dude, can I have some privacy?”

My nagging ghost replies, “Privacy’s for those capable of changing clothes before going to bed.” 

Ever since the party last night with the Masters and their Servants, Mary’s been all sorts of pompous and really trying to hide her. . . Not accent; what’s the word she uses for it. . . Brogue. That’s it. Anyway, I guess rubbing shoulders with the cultured reminded her of her past. The same past I partly saw last night. 

I sigh as I flush.

Life must have been pretty shitty back then, but I’m glad to see that Mary was able to live her American Dream. Even if she got sick towards the end, at least the government looked after her. According to most media outlets the American Dream is deader than a doornail, replaced with disenchanted active shooters. Good to know the system worked once upon a time. But then again, wasn’t Mary framed for murder?

I try to imagine how that went down as I dig through my packed bathroom drawer for that half empty bottle of witch-hazel cleanser and those cotton pads from the 99c store next to the Gross Out. Okay, make-up is all gone, so pause the video while I get that square of aloe face cleansing soap. Face all wet, now sud up, cheeks first, around the nose, and finally forehead. All cleansed so it’s time to pull out the big guns. Moroccan red clay facial scrub. Today’s exfoliation day. Once a week. You don’t want to exfoliate too much because it takes too much off. Scrub hard, scrub deep, and maybe one day these blackheads will all be gone. Press play again, skip, skip, skip. Don’t act like you aren’t sponsored. Can’t believe this video wasn’t demonetized. Let's finish this up with some Vitamin E oil. Hmmm, I don’t really want my face drying out so maybe some moisturizer too — time to switch to that moisturizer video Krista favorited for me. I do like how this girl dabs her face. Two on the chin, three on each cheek, one between the eyebrows, one on the middle of the forehead and two at the temples. Now rub in. And no, I don’t think I will like and subscribe. Why? 

I look at the mirror. 

Are all girls hopeless romantics for following a daily ritual of cleansers, masks, and creams or have we just been conditioned to believe these things make us more beautiful? But this is how we relate to each other, right? This is how we socially stratify ourselves, right? There has to be some sort of secret to this slavish devotion if this girl on my phone has a million people who thought her advice on morning skin routines was worth their attention because she happens to look better than they do. 

I touch my cheek to make sure there’s no residue. 

What’s the difference between this video and when Caster and the Silver Princess walked down the staircase? They’re both just as unattainable for us mere mortals. I think most women know that, yet we still continue our daily regiment through rain, hail, sleet, or snow because we can see the goal. Not in ourselves, that’s laughable, but in someone else. If you see the ideal, no matter how filtered or photoshopped it might be, you can reach it. So, day by day we plod, different combinations of products, different order of products, different ‘natural’ ingredients in the products. Yet always products, until that’s all we become to each other. 

The beginning was a tube of acne cream Krista said her “dope-ass” cousin recommended because I wouldn’t go out of the house without a beanie to hide the giant zits on my forehead. As parents gave in and bought us phones, utilitarianism transformed to mockingly mimicking girls who would upload videos about what products they would die on a hill for in their poorly lit bathrooms. High school was when parody turned into foundation, cleansers, moisturizers filling all empty spaces in my vanity. 

Because we felt like stealing all the free samples from unopened magazines in a CVS. 

Because your favorite Youtuber made a video recommending it. 

Because your mum took you shopping to try to prove to herself she could still be a good mother after her divorce. 

And through you, I… 

Honestly, a mystery, the things that you can get used to doing.

I open the bathroom door to find my ghost companion sitting on my bed with my iPad. 

“Sure took your time in the privy.”

“Is that my grandma’s? Did you raid the attic last night?” She’s wearing a deep blue flowing dress. My maternal grandparents died when I was young, but mom goes into the attic and looks through clothes with a wistful expression on her face, sometimes tears, when she’s had a particularly bad date. Based on the pool of guys you can meet in your mid-forties, that blue dress has been taken out more than its fair share. 

“Servants don’t need to sleep. And your grandmother had good taste, though I’m a little averse to wearing the dress of a woman who has already passed.”

“Why? You’re a ‘woman who has already passed.’ And like if you were so averse, why pick through my attic in the first place? Not that I care.” I start rummaging through my own clothes to find a clean shirt and catch a glimpse of the iPad screen. “Servants know how to use tablets?” 

“The Grail tells us what computers are, but no, we don’t know how to use them. But come on dearie, if you can read and write it’s not that hard to operate a digital typewriter.” Also, your key combination is much too obvious, anyone could unlock your machine, she adds. 

Impressed with yourself, much? 

“It’s not worth anything, just something my mum says she got me because I got good grades.” She landed a big client that day too. Talk about an egotrip. You’re such a smart girl Nadine. You could be a scientist or lawyer; your father would be so proud of you. How about a reward for all your hard work? “Anyway, why are you watching Anthony Bourdain?” 

Enraptured by a man with bushy eyebrows and curly white hair gracing the screen, she ignores me. Behind him is a red glowing neon sign of some bohemian New York eatery. 

“You know he died. Suicide, I think.”

“Bless his heart,” she mumbles without taking her eyes off the screen. “Everything a cook should be, this one was.” 

It makes sense that the first thing Mary, a famous cook, would be watching on Netflix are other famous cooks, but just how much did she end up binging last night if she’s already on the last episode?

“Ummm, My mom’s still downstairs. I’ll head down and let you know when she’s gone.” 

“Grand,” she says without looking up.

***** 

Tentatively, I take a bite out of my Eggo. Slightly burnt, but edible. Slather on enough Nutella and it's fine. What are Eggos but a vehicle for spread?

In a slightly too professional grey pants suit coupled with a black blouse that lets everyone know she’s fun enough to flirt back even if her pants suit is too professional my mom comes into the kitchen jangling her car keys.

“You’re up early.” She sounds surprised. 

“Life of an indentured servant. You were the one who signed off on that Great Compromise.” 

“In such a good mood, how rare.” She takes out a giant Odwalla superfood juice and pours herself a glass of what looks like algae mixed with mud. “How was last night? Quick, I’ve got to go soon.”

That reminds me. . . 

“Hey mom, do we have any magic in our family?” 

“Magic? I think your father used to do a bit in his college days back when David Copperfield was cool. Oh, but he didn’t like being called a magician, he was an ‘illusionist’, or when half the seats at an open mic were filled, a ‘prestidigitator’. It was cute.” 

She finishes her juice, fills the glass with tap water and leaves it in the empty sink. 

“No mom, like witches and wizards, the Harry Potter stuff. Wasn’t one of your grandmothers from Salem?” 

“No, no, I don’t think so. . . I’ve got to go. We can talk more about this. . . oh! That’s right! Remember cousin Becky? Uncle Noah and Aunt Emma who helped us when we first moved here? God, I haven’t called since last Thanksgiving. Anyway, remember Becky? The one who chewed her split-ends and had that cute crush on your brother. Well, get this, she’s a witch now. Saw it on Facebook. She got into it after being accepted into Berkeley. Smart kid, not very bright.” 

“No mom, Wiccans don’t count.” And most of my cousins had crushes on my brother. 

“Then, I guess we don’t have magic in the family. Why are you asking?” She’s rummaging through her purse probably looking for the car keys that are right in front of me. 

“Everyone at that party was like an aristocrat. They talked a lot about their ancestors. The host, Lord Byron, seemed to be from one of those old families mentioned in occult books? Apparently, he was related to the Valueta family and there was like a Waynez family mentioned.” 

“Well Nadine, that’s just the Brits for you. But, Waynez. . . Waynez. . . now, where have I heard that name again. . . Oh, there are my keys. Nadine, why didn’t you tell me they were just. . .? Well, now I’m really going to be late if I don’t—” Struck by a bolt of divine inspiration, her eyes widen as she slams her hands onto the granite kitchen top. “You don’t mean the Waynez Department Store in London, do you?” she practically shrieks. 

I gaze into the abyss of her ardent eyes and find it very difficult to see myself anymore, so I shrug. 

“Nadine—” she starts, before being cut off by the buzz of her phone. “Oh shi— We’ll talk more about this when I get home, okay? Cute henna, are those supposed to be peacock feathers?” 

Crap, I really need to figure out how to hide my Command Spell. 

That’s my mom for you: didn’t even ask me what I was going to do today. I spent a sparse five minutes planning a lie too. What a waste.

When the car finishes pulling out of the driveway, I shout upstairs, “Hey, Mary, want breakfast!?” 

She tromps down the stairs and eyes the juice container that my mom left on the counter with vehement disapproval. 

“It doesn’t actually taste like what you’d think. They make it for people like my mom so that they think they’re getting enough servings of fruit and vegetables when it’s mostly sugar.” 

“Wasn’t complaining about the slop, dearie. For a home this large, this kitchen is awful cold.” 

“The thermostat is on the wall behind you.” 

“Not like that. There’s a universal law that every kitchen is a sinking ship where the cook continuously bails out the seawater with a bucket and her own two hands. No matter how fastidiously a cook may clean and scrub, imperfections build over time. This place is too clean, not because someone did a good job cleaning, but because it hasn’t been used.” She drags her index finger across an induction plate and inspects the residue. “Your mother has never taught you to cook?” 

“I think she taught me how to make scrambled eggs once.” I get indignant. “Look, if you don’t like the food we have, you can cook.” 

“Dearie, you couldn’t afford my rate.” 

That takes me back to my dream where soft candlelight illuminated a multitude of dishes cooling on top of a luxurious tablecloth enveloping a hardwood table carved from a single tree, can you believe it, lovelies? Dinner was never just a family occasion. There were always guests around the table marveling at the newest delight from the Orient or Paris their cook had concocted. 

“I dreamt about you last night. That’s a magecraft thing, right?” 

She seizes up. “Yes dearie, it’s normal for Masters and Servants to see each other’s pasts. It has to do with how the path is set up during the contracting I believe.” 

I finish my Eggo. After what happened in the bathroom this morning, it’s good to see her squirm a little. “Oh, it happens to every Master. That’s a bit disappointing. My past is pretty boring, sorry about that.” 

“Nadine. . .” You know it's serious when Mary says your name, “What did you see?” 

“Peach ice-cream. I saw you making peach ice-cream.” Geez, you don’t have to make that face.

“Aye.” There’s a wisp of pride in that ghostly smile. “Then you saw me on one of my good days.” 

Best leave it at peach ice-cream, but after seeing how she immigrated to this country, there’s something that I need to confirm. 

“You’re a Heroic Spirit, Mary, but you didn’t do anything magical in your life like err. . . defeating Hades, right.”

She crosses her arms, “Proper Heroic Spirits like Archer and Rider are heroes people revere for doing something. In my case, bad things, unjust things, were done to me and that’s why people still know me today. I’m just a cook, dearie. I can’t help you with magecraft.” 

The bowl-cut priest said. . . it seems that I have eyes that see into the world. 

Laurent said. . . if my eyes do see into the world, then I could be a Magician’s Egg. 

“Where does that leave us?” 

“We’ve been contracted for three days now. Don’t take this the wrong way dearie, but you’re not suited for war.” 

Sick burn. 

“So why stay with me?” I ask, pushing the hope that tries to escape my throat as far down my stomach as possible. 

“If there’s one thing I learned during my life, it’s that there’s safety among the weak.” 

It was dumb to think that maybe we were starting to be friends.

***** 

Beneath the trio of hung kayaks that have never touched water, I pump air into a half-flat bike tire. Ten pumps. Press my thumb against it. Slight give; good enough. There isn’t too much dust on the frame and nothing squeaks so my brother’s bike is probably still ride-able. Tolosa’s big on bikes even if it really shouldn’t be. Too hilly. Sure, it’s fun going down, but you have to get off your bike and walk it up.

“We’ll be riding to the church?” Mary looks at me apprehensively after adjusting the seat on my bike. For the last two days, Mary has always been in her ghost form, following me around when we’re in public. All of a sudden, she puts on my grandmother’s dress and wants to bike around town, see the sights. Something definitely must have happened last night. 

“I’ll stop by in the afternoon to see how Father Phahn is doing.” My mum and the bowl-cut priest have some sort of agreement. If I work at the church for the next two weeks, she’ll cover for my absences at school. She didn’t know that the priest she signed up as my mentor was a Master and the overseer for this fucked up ritual. “I texted Laurent last night. He responded this morning. We’re going to meet at Ahnenerbe, a cafe downtown.” 

“German.” Mary smiles wryly as we wheel our bicycles outside the garage and proceed to get on. “Freddy would have words.” 

Not going to bite. Girls who can insert a boyfriend into any conversation are the worst. 

“Yeah, there was a big fight over it a few years back. Had protestors and everything, No one thought that cafe was going to make it more than two months.”

“Because of the name?” 

“People were pissed on both sides. It was ridiculous. Then the election happened and. . . ” I shrug. “There are still college students who avoid it because they don’t want to be associated and some kids that go in to take pictures that they think will get them Reddit clout.”

“So why is your friend asking us to meet him there?” 

“Laurent said he was going to bring someone from the church. Might be German?” 

Mary looks back and shakes her head in disapproval before starting to pedal. 

What?

***** 

The GPS said fifteen minutes but we take more like half an hour to reach downtown. No problem, I planned for this, thinking Mary would be unaccustomed to riding a modern bike down a modern street. Turns out it was me having to stop multiple times to make sure we made the right turn, and when we didn’t, well we’d have to turn back. It’s been a while since I’ve biked Tolosa. When Krista got her license and her dad got her a car so he could ‘win’ the divorce, we ditched the bikes.

We’re close to downtown now; I can see it on Google Maps. The streets become more labyrinthine the closer you get. How many times have we stopped, already? Mary hasn’t complained yet. Worse. She’s looking through me, gazing down the street. Her eyes are distant, almost forlorn for a shore that she’ll never reach. I’m nothing but an inconvenience.

“It’s that way.” I point in the opposite direction. 

She makes a small grunt and follows me down the street. 

Is it more difficult for Servants who come from the distant past or those from modern times to acclimate? On one hand you have extreme culture shock; but after they get past the initial shock, they can treat their manifestation as a vacation to a theme park they’ll forget about in two weeks. On the other hand, you have Mary who finds familiarity in the skeleton of a modern street, but that same street reminds her that her present is now a dead past. 

“It’s so different, yet everything’s the same,” blithely comes out of her mouth as we pass the neatly packed stores. She doesn’t care to elaborate. 

“A small Californian city can’t really compare to Manhattan.” 

“Aye.”

When we took the bus around Tolosa two days ago, we passed by downtown but didn’t stop. So as we make our way down the street to the cafe we’re supposed to meet Laurent, I point out a souvenir store, try to explain how ROSS is a franchise, or why there are so many restaurants advertising themselves as breweries. 

“If you want to see the town at its rowdiest, there’s the Farmer’s Market tonight.”

“Farmers in such a modern town?” 

“Ummmm,” I’m originally from Portland so explaining how the Central Coast works to other people isn’t my strong point. “California’s known for agriculture. Something to do with a Mediterranean climate meaning they can grow more than cash crops. There might not be much agriculture in the town, but there’s quite a lot around it. Honestly though the Farmer’s market isn’t really for farmers. Just an excuse for restaurants to set up booths.”

“Oriental restaurants, Mediterranean eateries, and coffeehouses abound. New York at the turn of the 20th century was cosmopolitan, but I didn’t expect such diverse cuisine so far west.” 

I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s all the same. That this town subsumes each foundation, stripping authenticity down to a frame and serving it to customers. There’s pride, there has to be, if they’re willing to sell a product they believe in. But that’s all it is, a product; the vision behind it has undeniably become Tolosa. Except for the fast food. Perhaps those companies were already so homogenized that locality had no observable effect. I don’t know, but I can’t help but think Mary is a bit naive when it comes to food. 

We pass the burger place/coffee shop/brewery that specializes in sours preparing for the oncoming lunch rush. The only people on the streets are moms finished with morning Spin class or college students who thought it was a better use of their time to go downtown than attend lecture. We park the bikes at the nearest racks we can find. Totally forgot to bring an extra lock, a single U-lock around the front wheel and spokes should be fine. As long as the bikes are on the racks no one should touch them. It’s Tolosa, after all. Mary doesn’t make a comment about the bikes, but asks me what I hope to get out of lunch with Laurent and his friend. 

“Because I don’t think we can win.” 

Because after last night I just want to talk to Laurent. 

“I thought that was a given, dearie.” She seems disappointed it took me so long to realize. “Was that after Father Phahn made his speech? You left for quite a bit of time.” 

On our way down the street to Ahnenerbe I tell her about how Byron made me realize even if I was a better mage than him, we still wouldn’t have a chance.


	21. 19/ Ecce Homo (I)

**19/ Ecce Homo (I)**

After splashing water on my hands and half-drying them on a hand towel that might have belonged to the gardener, the buzz from the champagne starts wearing off and that bowl-cut priest’s speech about Holy Grail rituals, destiny, and the Church starts soaking itself into my brain. 

I’m out of my depth, aren’t I? 

The mages and Servants all ate up his words like the lobster tail baked in garlic butter that came out soon afterwards. But me, I’m just. . . I have these eyes though. So turn the doorknob and open the door. God, Nadine, you’re not going to let yourself be stuck in a bathroom in yet another party. That’s just too pathetic. Even for you. 

The bathroom opens up to the garden. Turning that doorknob took most of the courage I have, so I stand in place, staring at the Iselma family’s well-lit garden. 

“Master, multiple sentry units have activated. Good heavens, why didn’t the outer bounded field detect a soul?”

Peeking out from a large spherical hedge, I see an older man’s outline sitting at a fountain’s edge in the middle of the garden looking down at the hill this mansion was built on. Lord Byron. The twinkling voice belonged to his Servant. 

My breath catches the back of my throat as she glides into view. Her pale blond hair is tied up in a delicate bun that leaves her forehead and neck bare. The moon daren’t reflect off those porcelain surfaces, preferring to hide in the clouds so it need not confront the █ that puts nature to shame this night. A jeweled choker encircles her throat, drawing my eyes to her almost bare shoulders from which billows a light blue ball gown that the shrouded stars themselves have found fitting to stitch themselves within. Compared to that, I may as well be wearing an unironic garbage bag dress. 

“Leave it, Caster. If the system can’t handle it, Estella will,” he raises an empty glass. 

“That aside Master, the host should attend to his guests.” 

“These guests are a girl, a snake of a priest, and a street performer escorting a half brain dead homunculus he managed to scrape together from busking. Bah! They’re all trash.” 

“No need to harry them as if they were vermin, Master. Common vermin can be delightfully magical. A common servant girl can become a Lady for a night if she wishes with all her heart. The Grail impresses upon us the magic of wishes, allowing the less fortunate to overcome adversity through persistence. Everyone in that hall has heard and answered that call. You are no different, so you shan’t insult them in my presence.”

“Hah, no.” In a single word, all the glittering magic in the air that promised a tomorrow that sparkled with kindness evaporated. “Pretending trash isn’t trash is shameful, Caster.”

He looks over at the woman his words should have cut. There is neither shame nor hurt on her face — only serenity that would reflect the stars in the night sky if they were not covered in clouds. That makes Byron uncomfortable. Serves him right. 

He wants to confront you, see if you’re worthy of his time and even then you’ll only earn grudging acceptance. I didn’t make that cut, that’s why I’m behind this hedge. I’m not scared of him. I’m scared of destroying him with these eyes because he’s a short-sighted idiot. 

Caster was spared indignation because she’s his object; the Servant _he_ summoned. To Byron, she’s both his representative and tool. His ego holds him hostage. Calling her trash is an acknowledgment that the summoner is also trash. He can never insult her as he does with everyone else. The most he can do is deny her worldview, caging a bird that should have soared, spreading its truly sickening blessings to anything under its wings. 

“No Master, no one’s shameful. Not even yourself.” She says simply with an understanding smile on her face. 

What? 

Byron’s eyes widen and relax for a moment as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest. He catches himself though, pushing the weight back down with the entire force of his disagreeable personality. As his eyes narrow, all signs of any vulnerability are gone and what’s left is a tinge of fear because he can once again see the mirror in front of him in the shape of the most █ woman, so bright she could burn anyone’s moral retinas. 

She goes beyond the territory of female protagonists in Japanese comics who are chased by every fictional man who should by no rights be attracted to her. She is a competent, complete Madonna who knows her own intrinsic worth so she has no problem accommodating your ridiculous views. Every woman wants her confidence and ease. Every man wants her respect and attention. She affirms them both with a cute laugh to boot. Fuck me dead, they exist. I thought the closest we got was an Instagram filter. 

“Y-You,” Byron stutters before recomposing himself in a way no man could after being hit by that mental attack. For the first time, he sees something in her that terrifies him and disappoints him at the same time, forcing these words from his mouth, “What about you, girl? Did you ever consider how your father felt?” he says, head down, defeated. 

Caster doesn’t respond. Her perfect brows, two shades more complex than any eyebrow pencil, crease for a mere second. The movement doesn’t dare wrinkle that marble skin. Instead, the inner curve of her cheek gives way to well-deep dimples one could lose their sanity within. 

“See, you can care if you try, Master.” She offers him her hand. 

Byron doesn’t take it, or rather he can’t find the will to do so, “Let me enjoy the night air a little longer, Caster.” 

She softly nods and almost floats past the hedge I’m hiding behind, back to the party impossibly alone. When she disappears through the door, Byron calls out, “No amount of handwashing could get the stench of leaking magical energy off, you amateur.” 

Walk away. 

“Come here.” He motions me to sit as he’s pouring himself a drink. 

I’ve always been at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

My dad had a heart attack when I was in the car. 

Krista gave my brother a handjob in the first room I walked into. 

I summoned Mary in the school football field that had been transformed into a makeshift colosseum.

Leaving my first party early led me straight into a vampire. 

I see. I have eyes that allow me to discern the subtleties of nature. All these shitty things happened because I was there. You, ‘Lord’ Byron, are just a symptom. You say you don’t suffer fools, but as Masters we have nothing to suffer but each other. So I’ll sit. I’ll sit in front of this water clock impaled with pipes and listen to you because you’re a mage who said I, the ones with these eyes, the one called a Magician’s Egg, was nothing. So, show me. Show me the difference between us. 

“That. . . was all drivel.” His breath smells like sour wood. . . whiskey. 

“Yeah. You got issues, dude.” 

“Dude, hah. That’s the first time I’ve been called. . . .” He half-drunkenly turns and looks me straight in the eye. “Do you know how easy it would be for me to tease out that memory and tear it apart — no. . . for me to enter,” he taps his temple, “and steal every unoriginal thought you’ve ever had?” 

“Yes. But a vampire tried and didn’t get far.” 

He snorts under his breath, shakes his head and puts his drink down. “A vampire tried. . . ” he gingerly fingers his cane. “I won’t question why you’re fighting; it’s too trite of a question and most answers are equally so, my own is no different.”

“Mary; she’s not a bad person.” 

“Did you really call your Servant a person? Amateur, amateur mistake.”

“I don’t know, you seemed to have a pretty good time talking to her this evening.” 

“An artist’s curiosity, nothing more.” 

“Artist, not a magus?” 

“I’ve been feeling more like a — It’s all nonsense anyway, amateur, forget I spoke.” 

We sit silently for a few moments before I ask, “You said that I was hopeless. Trash. Why?” 

“Terrible circuits. Calling yourself a magus requires possessing a minimal amount of magical energy. You don’t even reach that threshold, amateur. Resisting a vampire’s mystic eyes. . . pshhh, no doubt took all the Od you had. You’d be hard-pressed to utilize any nature-interference magecraft even if you had that upstart El-Melloi II’s ability.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“A useless, hateful talent. He’s the closest anyone’s ever come to understanding my system with a mere glance. What else in this world could be more hateful than that?” 

“He has eyes that see into the world?” 

“Bah, see into the world? All that sniveling man can see are his own students reaching heights he’ll never touch. He’s useless. No, it’s all useless.” 

“What’s useless?” 

His eyes sharpen the moment the question leaves my mouth. “You really don’t know, do you? You really don’t know and willingly joined this Holy Grail War.” 

I. . . I am a Master, the Command Spell on the back of my hand confirms my status. You are a half-drunk boomer who doesn’t realize he’s having a mid-life crisis. Trophy Servant, sports-carriage, getting a little too into acquiring land in the Central Coast. I like you because you’re willing to tell it like it is, but I don’t respect you. 

“Have you heard about the Tower of Babel?” He shakes his head. “No, forget I asked, with this country’s education system I’m astounded whatever comes from your mouth is even intelligible.” 

“Kids my age are dumb, yeah, but don’t lump us together. Babel. That’s a Bible thing. Back in the day everyone could communicate so they tried to build a tower to reach God. God was not okay with this for some reason and destroyed the tower. So it couldn’t happen again, He created different languages.” 

“The first mistake is the most elementary, amateur. The story of Babel was not Man attempting to reach God but to call It down. An allegory for the end of the Age of Gods, but not the story of magecraft. For that, consider the world a library. Each book in this library contains five hundred pages and each page averages about eighty words written in, say, English. For an average magus, it takes approximately a year to read a page. Finishing a book would take five hundred years. Now imagine if no two books in the library were the same and the location of each book was random.” 

Dumb thought exercise. Reminds me of monkeys, typewriters, and infinite time. I’m guessing the answer is that there would be a lot of books, but not infinite. There would be a book with the letter A for all five hundred pages and Z for all five hundred pages and everything in between. It would contain all information that could fit on five hundred pages, be it recipes for peach ice-cream, the ending of the last Game of Thrones book, or just ‘suck a dick’ written over and over again for five hundred pages. But it takes five hundred years to read through one book and all the books are different. There's nothing telling you what you’re reading is meaningful or just gibberish. No, that’s the point, there’s no longer a difference between the two. 

Geez, what a worthless — 

“What a worthless library.” Byron takes another sip. “But it holds the answer to any question, to all the questions. You know it’s all there, all you have to do is look, and if you can’t do it, you hand your notes to your heir and ask them to reach for the Truth you sought. Because if everything is in the library, the Truth must be there too. So that’s what people start doing, organized searches, declaring some sections closer to the Truth than others, disputing what the Truth actually is, searching the books for a guide to a guide of the Truth. But what about the illiterate, what are they supposed to do with these books? They realize they could tear out pages and mold them into commodities: paper mâché clothes, cosmetics, maybe even ferment the pages and distill whisky.”

The quantity of books begins decreasing faster and faster, but that shouldn’t matter because the amount of books is near infinite so even if a book is destroyed, its copy that is one letter different should exist somewhere. 

“As the centuries pass the library becomes a world of paper mâché with those few readers left scurrying around with whatever books were still available hidden under their clothes, reading, hoping to one day find the Truth.”

What they don’t understand is it’s all the same. . . . 

“What they don’t understand is it’s all the same, just books.” 

Nice story for a middle-aged man, sobering up, but there are too many holes. For one, how are the illiterate people supposed to make things if they don’t know what those things are in the first place because they can’t read the books. Secondly, there are just so many books that even if you made paper mâché cities, there would still be an astronomical number of books left. Finally, 

“What does this have to do with being a magus?” 

“Listen closely, amateur. These mysteries that we try to reproduce are all just paper. That’s why it’s all bullshit.”

“Why are you telling me this if I’m just an amateur?” 

“Next time we meet, we’ll be enemies. I want you to know why you lost.” 

I don’t have a response to that, so we listen to the unseasonal cicadas in the garden trees chirp and the water clock striking midnight until Caster comes back, still robed in all her glory to tell Lord Byron he’s needed.

***** 

Dressed in tailored suits, a small army of wooden waiters mechanically circle the ballroom, periodically stopping at each pair of conversation partners to offer a ‘light bite’ as my mom would say. At the insistence of a partygoer, the silver platter is extended forward while the wooden robot lowers its head to imitate respect with a hint of reverence. It’s a scene directly out of a storybook, that’s why it’s so goddamn mundane. Krista’s mom used to take us to see Disney movies, The Princess and the Frog, Tangled, even Brave — you know, the ones they’re planning on milking live-action movies from in the next decade because they can’t find any more folklore to desecrate. She took us to see these movies because that’s what little girls want to see, romance, happy endings, magic — mostly magic. We’d laugh at the girls who would go out each Halloween in a princess costume, as if wearing a flimsy Target costume marked up twenty percent would bring enough magic to self-actualize whether through a Prince Charming or these days, rejecting all the suitors to go out dancing because you just _want_ to dance.

We had a great time laughing at those girls — Krista with a pair of cat ears and me, telling everyone that Halloween is fueled by capitalism preying on the misguided need for escapist wish-fulfillment until my mom shut me up by putting her witch’s hat on my head and telling me to have a good time trick-or-treating because she was late to a Halloween party for divorcees where she was sure to meet a stepfather for her kids dressed as a cowboy, banana, or doctor. 

For all Byron’s talk about the world as a library, an almost infinite number of books, and the struggle to find the truth; magic is already thickly threaded throughout the world. All you need to do is go to Buzzfeed to find out what Disney Princess you are. For a moment, you feel so strongly that particular fictional character might truly represent you that you press Tweet. It’s only after you needlessly shared absolutely nothing of substance with the world that you realize it was a shitty personality test some underpaid freelancer hurriedly made before going to their side hustle. If that’s not enough for you, take the four-hour drive to Anaheim and wait another hour to go on one of those rides. Sure, they’re carefully curated, artificial experiences but is that really any different from being served bacon-wrapped shrimp by one of these dolls? 

There’s nothing magical about magic in the modern world; it’s been clearly defined, applied, and reproduced. Nothing more than a marketing tool in our paper mâché world. 

So why do you care about it so much, Rich?

The geometry of the staircase interrupts the flow of magical energy from the speaker. 

The thread used for the golden embroidery on the Silver Princess’s sash should have been soaked in a dye made from sundried flowers from either nine to noon or three to sunset. 

What’s the fucking use of a magical mirror if it can’t see? 

In short, according to Rich, this entire event failed as a ritual to debut the Silver Princess and subsume the guests with Caster’s presence. 

“Lord Byron,” Rich says quite pointedly, “is nothing more than a hack. Rumors really are just rumors. That man touching「」? Unimaginable.” 

“Touching what?” 

“「」. Keep up, Nadine. The final destination for all magi, the Spiral of Origin where the Truth lies. A proper magus would participate in a Holy Grail War, Church-made or not, if it helped them come one step closer to「」.” 

That’s what Byron meant in the garden about the underlying idea behind the library. Mages are idiots who pursue this pie-in-the-sky grand theory of everything they don’t even have a name for. 

“So, then why is Lord Byron participating in this Grail War if he’s already touched. . . .” I try to make the same pause Rich does, but mine simply sputters out instead of dripping fervent gravitas.

I don’t need that mystical gravitas everyone else in this room has. I don’t need the ability to make wooden dolls serve hor d'oeuvres. These eyes see all the contradictions that litter this hypocritical ocean and drag them into the depths of a reality, magecraft alone can’t perceive. 

See, Rich’s eying me with slight misgivings before continuing, “That’s why he’s a hack. Whatever path he established must have become obstructed, or perhaps something he didn’t account for destroyed the path. He’s nothing more than a has-been trying to walk back his own mistakes with someone else’s Grail.”

“Totally. There’s no way Caster can win against Archer. She might be really lucky, but all her other statistics are caterpillars at best.” 

Genuine conversation is like a mountain stream. People think of it as crystal clear and deep enough that you can see the riverbed at the bottom. It’s sparkling, refreshing, and constantly flows. But that’s some idealized form of conversation exhausted writer rooms come up with before sliding in laugh tracks to make it seem more natural than it actually is. Nothing but a stock photo of a mountain stream. 

If you’ve ever been forced by your best friend to hike so she could get a selfie with you on top of the hill at sunrise because it was the last week of middle school, then you’ll know streams are wet, cold, and cloudy. They might flow, but there’s always debris and detritus around. They’re butt-ugly, but in that moment, you can’t help but be engaged. For a moment there’s nothing artificial. . . almost like people are no longer thinking about what they want to say or waiting so they can give their take. 

“Of course you wouldn’t see parameters as ranks.” He dismisses that momentary thought and purses his lips. “Yes, she can’t beat Archer in her current state.”

Hearing his name, the one-armed mass of muscle in boardshorts pretending to be interested in whatever hygienic wisdom Berserker might be doling out turns and gives me a friendly wave. 

“I didn’t know people that pretty existed.” I turn towards Caster, who’s now laughing pleasantly with Mary. I wonder what a fairytale princess and an Irish cook have in common. “And this was before plastic surgery.”

“‘To look upon beauty is to become beautiful,’” Rich distastefully spits. “That maxim is the core of the Iselma magecraft. They chased 「」 through the ultimate beauty, embodying their magecraft as the ‘Gold and Silver Princesses,’ symbolizing the sun and the moon, respectively. The Gold Princess of this era died, but it seems Lord Byron summoned a greater monster.” 

He lost one, a daughter. He does get it. . . a bit. But 'everything’s bullshit?’ Seriously excusing himself with that man-pain. 

Still, the sun and the moon, pretty obvious then isn’t it? It’s like. . . umm what’s the word for it again? How they were able to make Velcro. . . Ah, biomimicry, that’s it. If you make two people, one with the principles of the sun and the second with the principles of the moon — the moon is going to reflect the radiance of the sun and that’s why it shines. As looking upon beauty makes one become beautiful, gazing upon the sun makes the moon more beautiful and gazing upon the moon makes the sun more beautiful in turn. It’s a simple feedback loop like how increasing CO2 emissions melt the ice-caps, decreasing the amount of sunlight reflected, further increasing the temperature which further melts the ice-caps, further decreasing the amount of sunlight reflected. That would mean the Silver Princess is reflecting Caster now. 

“What could be greater than the sun?”

“They’re playing it right now. Do you have Shazam?” His tone shifts into a higher key on the upbeat.

“What?” 

“The app that tells you what song’s playing.” 

The old-timey, upbeat brass makes the Spanish-inspired mansion more similar to a smoke-filled twentieth-century nightclub where the hardboiled detective swears he isn’t looking for trouble. 

“Oh yeah, no one uses Shazam anymore.”

Rich raises an eyebrow, and mutters ‘is that so,’ before good-naturedly chuckling to himself about how quickly times change. His laugh is more of a guffaw than a musical piece, but the moment he hits that downbeat, his expression goes completely cold. 

“The light of the planet.” 

“What?” 

“Something greater than the sun — the light of the planet.” 

I’m about to ask him to elaborate so my eyes can trace the hidden connections to drag the impenetrable magical world into the understandable mundane, as connections can’t exist without facts, irrefutable scraps of data that pave the mystical path these eyes lay, but the gnashing of armor scratching ballroom distracts the both of us from walking down that road. 

“You’re in better spirits, little lady. When you arrived, you looked like one of my generals reporting that he lost his first campaign.” 

This lofty Servant is the bowl-cut priest’s Rider. He helped Mary and me the night she was summoned. 

He cuts an intimidating figure, sure, but I can’t help but feel he belongs in a renaissance faire up until his helmet comes off. Then I vomit a little inside. I can’t stand that effortless handsome magazine ad type of fake. Here is a man who doesn’t try, yet everything falls into his orbit. And you could be this man if you buy the right protein powder. Not just a man. The Man. 

I hate that type of perfect because it stole my best friend. 

Chill, alright? Rider isn’t your brother and he actually went out of his way to help you. You’re a Master now, so act like you’re a Master, okay? 

“Ha, no, yeah, just hangry. Your Master’s speech was really great, explained everything really clearly.” 

“I didn’t expect Milord to speak. He should have asked me to give him pointers. I’ve given speeches that soared, inspired even wounded men to continue fighting.” He turns to Fillia who has been standing with us this entire time and not uttered a single word. “And you milady, I was unable to greet you properly during our last meeting. Your Servant’s combat prowess are quite grand, indeed.” Rider takes and then kisses her hand. “And you, sir?” 

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just her humble Tuner. No need to bother with me at all.” He offers a shy smile and waves his hand dismissively.

“I may not know much about magi and their customs, but to be the Tuner for one of the Founding Families must be an honored position. During my time, there was great honor found as an officer of the King.” 

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind, sir!” He reaches out to shake Rider’s hand. Rider obliges with gusto. Gag.

“What of you, little lady? How have the past two days been for you?” 

“Yesterday, I was attacked by a vampire.” 

Why am I describing my near-death experience like I’m recounting what I did for the weekend to a disinterested classmate who happened to sit next to me because she was late for class. 

“About tha—” Rich starts, but Fillia gently touches his arm. “Yes milady, of course.” He retreats a few steps. 

“I hope the Church is not entirely focused on ‘rogue Servants’ but is also following up on that worrying incident.” The box known as Fillia opens and plays. There’s a hint of steel in her voice that wasn’t present at the beginning of the night. “A Dead Apostle Master expands your duties, Rider. I am sure your Master does not want a replay of Snowfield.” 

“It may please you to hear Milord has sought outside help to deal with this. . . infestation. A specialist from the Church should be tracking the vampire this very instant.” 

Laurent said that if I wanted to know more about vampires, just like in horror movies, the Church deals with them. What’s the connection between mages and the Church? 

“Speaking of Father Phahn, where is he?” The signature bowl-cut is nowhere to be seen. He seems like the type who secretly loves being the center of attention. Byron’s gone too. 

The doors slam open and in strides Byron with the bowl-cut priest in tow with serious expressions on their faces. The two well-dressed men abruptly stop in the center of the room, their very presence stopping all of the mechanical waiters in their tracks.

“Fath—” The Silver Princess starts but closes her mouth as Caster lays a hand on her shoulder. 

I can feel something benign flowing through the air and then sucked into the cane Byron taps on the marble floor. As the sharp sound rings through the motionless ballroom, a translucent bubble expands from where he struck the floor. It doesn’t take three seconds to become as large as a projector screen. Within the reflection I can see the bottom of a grassy hill. 

“If linking the senses of the bounded field to a bubble is meant to impress—” Rich stops muttering under his breath as he squints at the image. “That’s a Servant.”

The woman standing at the bottom of the hill glows a sooty red from the embers flaking off her silhouette.

“Sa. . . ber. . .” Rider mouths, trying to keep emotion from leaking out. 

“Saber!” Archer exclaims as if excited at the prospect of meeting an old friend. 

Saber, Saber, the whispered name makes its way through the ballroom, first in hushed tones, then in reassuring strokes, before Father Phahn finally claps his hands. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Servant of the rogue Master has penetrated Lord Byron’s bounded field. We currently do not know what her intention is, but as the overseer of this war I will now have Rider engage her in combat. Are there any objections?” 

Phahn’s eyes glow like the vampire’s when he held my head. They dare anyone to challenge his right to hunt. Archer’s aura is oppressive, but the priest’s bloodthirst is as sharp fangs that puncture your cranium, dig into the brain, and drag you into his gullet. I think I need to pee again. But don’t worry Nadine, the bowl-cut priest’s a good person. He helped Mary and you when no one else did. This is just what it means to be a Master. See? 

Surprisingly, the first person to clear her throat then respond is the Silver Princess, “Saber has trespassed on Iselma land.” Her voice is clear like a crystal bell that will forever ring in your head until you can’t help but tear it off. “We will endeavor to support you as much as —” 

“Thank you for your graciousness but that shall not —” Phahn says without looking at her.

“ **Shall** be accepted.” Byron looks Phahn directly in the eye. “Anything less would be an affront to the Iselma name.” 

“As you please then, Lord Byron.” Phahn backs off. 

I wouldn’t. 

There’s a thin line between accepting someone’s relative authority and actually trusting them. Phahn spun this elaborate tale about the origins of the Holy Grail War and why he is participating. It’s too neat and tidy for these mages who live in fictional libraries overthinking about the contents of a book for five hundred years or whatever. But guys, sometimes the world gives you a brother who is perfection in a bottle, a mom from daytime television, and a dead dad. Beat that. 

“My Doctor requests that I help sanitize the area.” With her back straight, Berserker announces her intent. “Courtesy deems it necessary for us to repay Iselma kindness and to beg pardon. I eagerly enlist myself for this operation. Furthermore, as gratitude, please expect a hygiene and health report in the mail.” The crazy lady has enough presence of mind to make her appeal to Byron instead of the bowl-cut priest.

Byron looks at Phahn, “Any objections?” 

Phahn can’t question Berserker’s intentions if he wants to catch up to Saber. All he can do is shake his head.

“Good.” Byron claps. 

“You’ve been too kind tonight, Lord Byron.” Rider walks towards the center of the room with armor clinking against the marble. “Let me repay you with a battle for the ages. Milord?” As he gets closer I hear another set of gnashing, but heavier. Horseshoes scratch the marble as an armored black stallion materializes from thin air. Like what guys think they look like when asking a girl to dance, Rider holds out his hand inviting the bowl-cut priest to ride with him. 

“Indeed,” but Phahn turns to Byron. “Shall there be a servant to escort me to the support you promised?” 

Byron snaps his fingers. One of the mechanical waiters steps forward, bows to Phahn, and motions him to follow. 

“Dear Lady?” Unperturbed, Rider asks Berserker, as he materializes a horse right behind him. 

She turns up her nose in disgust before muttering some words about bacterial load as both parties walk out of the ballroom.

As they leave, the mechanical waiters return to pushing refreshments and the automatic band begins to play a more war-like track. After curtseying to her new friends, Mary finally comes over. Her red cheeks betray how much fun she had without me. 

“Marvelous, just so marvelous. Nadine, did you have a grand time?” Her accent is completely gone, replaced with a facsimile upper-class upbeat chatter.

***** 

“I can’t believe that you just grumbled at me.”

That reminds me, “Hey Mary, what were you and Caster talking about, last night?”

“I like her,” she mumbles. 

“Hm?” Let's pretend I didn’t hear her.

She looks at me instead of the crowd streaming down the street alongside us, “I like her.” 

“I’m sure she gets that a lot.” 

Princess Perfection. You know what would be terrible? If she turned out to be a kickass martial artist as well. God save us all. 

“That’s not a good thing, you know, dearie. When you’re an unmarried cook looking for work in New York, it's really quite easy to make your employers like you because they really just want the same thing. A project to turn into an ‘honest woman’ through their employment. They want to feel good about themselves. When a household’s mistress’s first question is about cooking, well, dearie, you’ve either found yourself someone desperate or someone worth cooking for.” 

Trick question, Mary. “But Caster didn’t say either?” 

“Aye, she didn’t. There I was standing in my work clothes and she has the nerve to come up and compliment me. She knows, that one: which stains you can get off, which ones you hide because you can’t. She asked to see my knife since she could tell I was a cook from my forearms and held it exactly the way you would if you were about to gut a fish. She doesn’t come at you as a lady, that one, but a friend who truly understands you.” She frowns for a moment, “You don’t suppose she has some special Servant skill do you, dearie?” 

I run through the display in my mind and shake my head. 

“I have this skill that makes my presence less than that of a Servant’s.” Right, Mary’s Powerless Shell. Shell implies there’s something inside though. “Caster’s a proper Heroic Spirit, no doubt about it, but you can’t feel any animosity or even competition. Almost like she’s. . . .” Mary trails off. 

Like she’s █.

“I like her. . . But I don’t like that I like her.” Because she shows you how pitifully human you really are. “Still, everything was truly magical last night, wasn’t it? Makes me a little sad, you know.” 

So transparent, Mary. Sad because all the dreams you had when you were a little girl turned out to be true, and you never got to live them. Instead, you were framed for a murder you claim you didn’t commit. 

“Still, you’re right,” she says immediately after a sigh. “After seeing that fight, I don’t know how we’re supposed to compete.”

Oh, the fight.


	22. 20/ Night, stay Knight

**20/ Night, stay Knight (I)**

**~Interlude~**

At the bottom of the hill, a lone Servant stood, a long golden sword resting in her right hand. Her mythril armor gleamed, reflecting soft flecks of fire, false summer fireflies flaking off her skin filling the night air. The sanctity of the scene was obvious to all lucky enough to take a cell phone picture. But they would have to reckon with a twisted frown marring her face. A ridiculous filter would be the only way to make her palatable for an online audience.

“How. . . problematic,” Saber murmured out loud as her violet, crystalline eyes lingered on the empty space behind her. 

The boy who had lain there was special to her Master; Saber was to make sure he wasn’t killed. In spirit form, she followed him but kept enough distance so the great hero couldn’t notice her presence. Only intervene if his life is in serious danger, her Master had ordered. Her Master seemed like a cheerful person who loved trees and flowers, yet whenever she spoke of the boy, she took on the same expression Saber had on right now. Saber understood; she became troubled often. For instance, she felt disgusted as the great hero tore off his arm. It reminded her too much of the glint from _his_ crystallized wisdom. 

Maybe this child is causing my Master's pain? She thought to herself. 

But pain was good. Pain was the pure, cerulean flame that burned livelier than any cold divine ring of fire. More, always more. Until there was no until. 

Then, Lancer struck. Lancer. . . ah. . . Lancer, how many times have they crossed sword and spear now? Just thinking about it twisted the sooty red flames in her hands to a warm orange. The Servant fought like a feral god of war — oh so different to _his_ knightly strikes. Each piercing thrust was like that of a charging wolf, each slash, the claws of a vulture attempting to grasp its prey, each explosion of magical energy only made him all the more wanting target for her demonic blade. Lancer, her Master’s enemy that she had been tracking since the day she was summoned. No matter for what purpose he was poisoning the leylines of this land, Saber needed to ███ him. 

The boy had taken Lancer’s blow, hoping to buy time for the Master behind him to summon her Servant. He failed and Saber saved him. While the boy did not have the slightest heroic aura, Saber couldn’t help wondering how quaint it was to save a life. She’d only taken lives to the afterlife. The sentiment filled her with nothing but the abstract coolness of that wide hall. Saving people couldn’t warm the heart salvaged from a crumbling shell in the Sahara and forged in a kingdom built on a ruse. But the contract must be honored. There was pride in that — and pride was firewood.

_“Saber, Chris is being carried through the forest as we speak. How are you feeling?”_ Her Master’s soft voice flowed into her mind through their telepathic link. 

_“Cold,”_ was the reply. She was always cold. 

What Saber longed for was not tepid, ethereal homeostasis, but flame that could scorch drama into myth. She hoped to find it in the hypnotic hoofbeats of the warhorse belonging to the Servant racing down the hill. The scent of battle had never filled her with the berserk fervor so many of those she plucked from the remnants of a battlefield did. Watching those battles when she was operational may have once warmed her heart, but faceless soldiers were inadequate kindling for her pyre. So, what of you, knight? 

After predicting Rider’s route from the knight’s killing intent and the horse’s twitching foreleg muscles, Saber readied her stance. Held aloft, the demonic sword’s golden blade now shimmered neon red. The magical energy that traced the edge of the blade converged into licks of sooty magical fire which quickly coated the entire weapon. 

In reply to the clear challenge, Rider’s outstretched hand grasped a war hammer — a wicked-looking hunk of steel. No matter the hammer’s size nor intricate design, the magical energy it radiated could not compare to Saber’s demonic sword. 

But what made the Rider class unique was their abundance of Noble Phantasms, and most importantly, the mount that put them on par with or beyond any one of the Knight classes. In that respect, this Rider who was less than three seconds from ramming into Saber was — 

A diagonal red line coated in a warm orange flame severed and cauterized the horse’s front legs in the same stroke. 

— Less than unsatisfactory. A horse that was not even on the level of a Monstrous Beast wouldn’t be able to touch Saber, no matter how cold she felt. The gamey lifeblood dyeing Saber’s skirt crimson failed to force her to recall the many flying horses that lost their lives under her command. 

Without its front legs, the great black beast crumpled under its own weight, but the momentum from a no-break gallop down the hill sent the dematerializing bulk crashing into Saber. 

The trunk of the horse blocked Saber’s view. She couldn’t tell if Rider was still atop or had already made his escape. No matter, this time _everything_ would burn. 

The demonic sword that was pulled back ignited once more. As Saber thrust the demonic blade forward with both hands, orange flames were expelled, expanded, and left nothing in their wake.

“Cold,” Saber murmured.

The force of the attack may have halted the horse’s charge and the flames burned ethereal flesh to a crisp, but within the vortex of the firestorm a shadow flickered for a moment, using the back of the dead horse as a springboard. 

Not Rider, because the moment she finished her attack another horse charged at her left flank. Rider must have escaped when she first sliced the horse’s front legs. He used the horse’s body as it reared in pain as cover to summon a fresh horse. The new horse might be chestnut this time but the armor was the same, the charge was the same, and the rider was the same so the result could be nothing but the same. 

No matter the number of horses that served as the logs for this bonfire, the fire they could produce wouldn’t be enough to warm her heart. What she longed for was something Father, something Master, something battle couldn’t provide. It existed when. . . when did it exist again? Heroic Spirits were beyond the confines of time so that spark must exist within her. What she needed was the Holy Grail to fan embers into a conflagration. Then she would be filled. That was the wish her Master promised to fulfill when the six other Servants were defeated. So please, burn so that I, in turn, may — 

“Saber!” Her Master’s shout cut through the weak orange flames.

Saber’s mission. She should be. . . but — 

Four seconds. That’s all the time Rider and his new horse needed to flatten Saber. 

Three. Once again, the demonic sword was pulled back, the flat of the blade perpendicular to the sky. 

Two. Saber felt magical energy from above. The shadow within the firestorm had decided to rear its head. From its velocity, there was more than enough force to turn Saber into a sizable crater. Conversely, if Saber decided to block the attack from above, Rider’s horse would run her over in the very next second. From the very beginning, Rider had been aiming for a pincer attack. This knight might have an inkling about strategy after all. 

One. 

A flash. This time instead of being thrust, the flaming demonic sword was swung. 

Magical energy masquerading as flame followed the slashing motion like a flaming whip, its thorns horizontally bisected the horse. It was a ferocious attack done with all Saber’s might without any regard for the enemy descending like a meteor.

Why neutralize the lesser threat? The threat from above was much more dangerous than Rider’s horse and hammer, anyone could see that from Rider’s grin. 

“Let her have it!” He roared in triumph. “Berserker —!” 

Expressionless in the face of Rider’s gloating, Saber didn’t stop swinging. As the bottom half of the horse detached and began to dissipate, Saber was still rotating with her sword outstretched. The only difference between when she unleashed her burst of magical fire and now. . . right underneath where Berserker’s foot was about to land, the blade was flat. 

Saber looked up. 

Berserker looked down. 

Two eyes with scenery centuries apart seared into them met. 

“Please. . . burn.” 

“121°C for 30 minutes above 15 psi, please.” 

With all her strength, Saber launched Berserker skyward. The impulse was divided by the mass to give a change of velocity that broke the laws of physics, sending Berserker rocketing through the bounded field behind the combatants. 

Without any regard to the blood and dust staining her armor or her Master’s congratulations on a job well done, Saber faced Rider who managed to grab the reins of a hastily summoned horse, galloping against the aftershocks so as not to be blown away. He subjugated his shocked expression into a respectful, charismatic smile. 

“What a truly magnificent adversary you are, Saber.” 

What a cold and disgusting expression.

***** 

Moments before Rider’s charge —

“Let me help, I’m a doctor,” Amelia said after Lancer had retreated. 

She holstered her gun and raised both hands in a practiced sign of goodwill. After an agonizingly short silence, Saber nodded and stepped back. Her Master must have agreed.

After fixing the last bandage onto the boy, Amelia breathed a sigh of relief. 

“This is all I can do here. After taking a Servant’s attack, he’s lucky both arms are still attached.” With a tired expression, Amelia diagnosed the boy. “His eyes weren’t closing so I wrapped a bandage around them. Other than that, he’s stable.” 

“My Master wishes to speak to you,” Saber quietly replied as they both heard a buzzing from the boy’s pocket. Saber reached in and presented Amelia with the cellphone. 

“Sorry for bothering you, Dr. Levitt. I’m so grateful that you saved someone precious to me.” 

Despite the delicate voice, she was no amateur. Information was queen in the Holy Grail War. ‘I know who you are’ logically leads to ‘I know what you’re capable of’ and then finally ‘I know your weaknesses.’ So, this was the woman who deserted the Church. 

Amelia could use the boy as leverage but Saber would kill her before she could pull her gun out of its holster or call Berserker. What a mess. This entire night had been a mess. 

After last night’s fight with the vampire, Amelia spent the day in her safe house trying to recover as much magical energy as possible while drawing up plans to intercept Assassin this very evening. Then came the signal from the overseer. A surge of magical light that only those with magic circuits could comprehend lit up the sky. The Masters who the Church had registered were sent invitations — the signal was for the stragglers and interlopers. The pattern of the lights gave coordinates and after inputting them into Google Maps, they pointed to Lord Byron’s mansion. Amelia’s plans quickly changed as she referred to her maps of the area. 

Send Berserker in as a decoy, isolate a Master, and Amelia, outside the mansion, would neutralize them before using a Command Spell to ensure their escape. And if that girl and her Assassin happened to be attending the gathering the same strategy could be used to bring Assassin down. The boy she had just stabilized had shredded her plan. 

Now, the desperation of having the most outstanding class hovering over her with Noble Phantasm in hand sent rusted gears Amelia hadn’t used since med school rotating. Mad Enhancement notwithstanding, Berserker was a Victorian lady who had even sought an audience with the Queen of England. She could hold her own in any high-class social engagement. What mattered to Amelia was conserving her Command Spell and ensuring Berserker was not in any avoidable danger. 

“It’s no trouble, it’s my job after all. But the Church must be cold-hearted to force a child into overseeing a Holy Grail War, Miss Matou. Sorry I haven’t been in contact, I had some unfinished business to attend to, and then I heard there was a new overseer?” 

Participants of this Holy Grail War had no information about the previous overseer other than he was an Executor-in-training. Most magi would consider taking advantage of his inexperience hoping to twist moderation into an unholy alliance. To further these machinations, they requested additional information. Information that had been blocked by the order of a highly-ranked bishop. However, the agency that Amelia worked for, Thorn, had deep ties with the Church, especially the American branch. On the surface, the Tolosa Mission was taken care of by Father Joseph Kelsey, the pastor. He had his Parochial Vicars and permanent Deacons; their names were all posted on the Mission’s website. But if you went deeper into the Mission’s official paperwork submitted to the Church, there were two names that stood out. The first was a pompous mouthful but the surname stood out — Frampton. Amelia vaguely recalled reading a redacted report from the head of Thorn before the organization took that name. 

During the preparatory period for the Fifth Fuyuki Holy Grail War, one of Thorn's consultants could feel the presence of more than seven Mystic Eyes on the same karmic line and therefore found it ill-advised to infiltrate Fuyuki. Always doing her due diligence, the consultant collected some Clock Tower reports about beheading incidents involving magi with Mystic Eyes that were related to the Animusphere family’s investigation into the Fourth Fuyuki Holy Grail War. She believed the incidents were related. The name of the Church investigator for that beheading incident was Frampton.  
The second was Sakura Matou. Matou — Makiri — one of the Founding Families of the Fuyuki Holy Grail Wars. The moment Amelia read the name, there was a twinge of emotion as the face of a ten-year-old black-haired girl tried to edge its way into her consciousness. 

Only someone with access to Thorn’s databases could know Amelia had volunteered for this Holy Grail War. Out of all the supernatural associations and organizations, only the Church had enough influence with the US government; separation of church and state be damned. 

“Magi. . . are just as coldhearted, no?” A soft voice leaked out of the speaker. Amelia’s head throbbed; she knew they both recognized the significance of those words. The caller’s trump card misplayed as a Freudian slip. “S-sorry about that. Please don’t mind me. Yes, there have been some complications with the management of this Holy Grail War. Officially, Father Phahn of the Eighth Sacrament is the current overseer.” 

What the priest said was true then. The person Amelia was talking to was a Church consultant who went rogue. 

“You’re making this kid run your errands?” Amelia spat out. 

“Of course not. He’s a good kid. . . a little too zealous. There’s a vampire in town,” she struggles to offer that fact as an excuse. 

“Yes, I encountered it last night.” 

“You understand, then? He really has nothing to do with this war.” 

“Then why was he at a gathering of. . . the Dead Apostle is a Master, isn’t he?”

“I believe so, yes.” 

“Your kid attacked me.” 

“And I’m so sorry that happened. I take all responsibility, truly. But I don’t have much time, Caster’s Master should have confirmed your location. The moment Father Phahn sees Saber, he’ll send all the Servants at that party to confront her. I need Saber to extract him, right now.” 

“Let me take him.” 

A short silence, “Excuse me?” 

“Take responsibility. I’ll take the boy. Have Saber cover our retreat. I have a car at the edge of the forest. Tolosa Mission, correct?” 

The other side of the line is silent for a moment. Saber turns her head, gazing towards the poor excuse for a castle. Finally, a reply comes back, “Your Servant’s inside.” 

“Yes,” Amelia admits. “Your kid interrupted my operation, and now my Servant is behind enemy lines. I need to get my Berserker out of that castle. You need to get this kid back home. Quid pro quo.” 

Amelia used ‘my Servant’ throughout their call. At this critical juncture, she revealed her Servant’s class. Make Matou feel responsible for the kid’s actions then give an inch. If she really does know your history, her latent guilt should do the rest. She’s a poor excuse of a magus. Just like you.

But she’s still a magus, so she’ll ponder for a moment about how easy it would be for Saber to kill you and then take the kid. Then she’ll ask — 

“How can I trust you with him?” 

“Children shouldn’t be caught in a war between adults who failed to make their wishes come true.” Amelia’s voice strains against the back of her throat as the words spill out. 

“Do you mind calling me when you start the car?”

***** 

“Using the flat of a blade as a springboard. Now, that is something I had yet to see. To think it came from a Lady of your breeding. And I call myself a career military man,” Rider nodded to himself as he dismounted, steel boots compacting soil, choking the sparse blades of grass. “Saber. . . how long did it take you from our last meeting to ally with Berserker?”

We’ve met before? Ever since she was summoned Saber’s thoughts were nothing but hazy flames. Truth be told, for Saber’s entire life had been filled with flames. Some may have burned hotter and brighter than others but all flames are eventually reduced to ash.

Her first night in this era, Saber and her Master had been ambushed by a wild flame that planted trees with reckless abandon to claim the mountain where Saber was summoned as his own. As their battle was on the brink of turning the mountain into Muspelheim, two other fires arrived — a brilliant incandescent flame that could light the entire sky and a steadfast fire that tried to burn nobly. 

“A weapon should never be turned towards a Lady, even if she imprisoned ones’ self to seize power.” His unadorned helmet materialized on top of a twisted, understanding smile. It must have been an artifact before the popularization of heraldry. “However, betraying the Church and then summoning a pagan is something a Defender of the Faith like myself cannot overlook. Shall you pay the tithe your Master owes?” How much was the bravado of a warrior who knew his opponent was clearly a rank above him? 

Rider hefted his warhammer in both hands and charged. The wicked hunk of metal could crush any armor, snap any weapon with its brute strength. Yet the slender demonic sword not only batted the warhammer away but also sent Rider slightly off-balance.

Saber’s attack wasn’t stronger. The quality of their weapons was what made the difference. The demonic blade in Saber’s hand, even unactivated, was a Noble Phantasm. If Rider had not pulled back at the last second, Saber would have shattered the hammer. Even the most optimistic hero understood what that exchange meant, so give up or use your Noble Phantasm. If you continue trying to fight hand-to-hand all that awaits you is — 

“A Saxon hero wielding a demonic sword she sets alight with her magical energy. My Master has an inkling of who you might be. Your pagan divinity is weak but present,” Rider said. “The only direct descendent of the Divine is the Son of the Lord. You, Saber, are an affront.” Wait, was he actually talking to her? 

Experienced warriors were supposed to completely understand each other in one clash of weapons. If that was the case, Rider knew full well that Saber would not reply. His words were autumn’s false winter breeze dressed up as a bombastic squall. 

Cold and disgusting, they couldn’t fan her fire. 

Sweet nothings roared to a lover you’ve already grown tired of in the middle of a crowded drinking hall. You hold her by the waist, proclaim you’ve fallen in her well-like eyes and her sweet scent drives you into a frenzy. Not for her but everyone else. But ███, why does she matter when the fire of your eye is sitting beside her brother?

Therefore, cold and disgusting. 

“Luckily, I had a good friend who was used to dealing with your kind.” The aura of magical energy around Rider thickened. “A friend who felled your. . . brother, I believe.”

His Od electrified the air and plated his hammer with a shell of sparks, hypnotically dancing, questioning the validity of deified natural phenomena. 

Ahhh, yes, now Saber remembered, the Servant in front of her was the stalwart. He was so inconsequential; fire that tried to burn with nothing but imaginary kindling as propellent. But if it’s for the sake of an immortal flame, then let me add even nothing to the pyre. 

With a running leap, Rider put his entire weight behind a downward slam. Although intimidating, the movement locked him in the air. Saber would take advantage of the momentary lapse to take a limb and slash him into two. 

“Guh —!” 

Saber was pushed back, forced to cancel slash into parry against the enormous weight that came flying from above. Rider just. . . threw his weapon. 

The sparks crackled against the sizzle of Saber’s blade. The hammer was heavier than before, more spiritually sturdy. More flame or else the mystery encroaching upon her Saint Graph would deny her heritage. Saber didn’t know the identity of Rider’s friend who blessed this hammer, but she could immediately tell he was an enemy to the tribe she forsook. 

How cold and disgusting. 

Not the sparks embedded in the hammer, not the power used to launch the hammer, not the mystery that must stay closed or it had no meaning, but because. . . 

The ground cracked from the flood of the contending elemental magical energy — 

“Saber! The real attack’s coming!” Her Master.

The thrown hammer was theatre. A gaudy, supposedly sentimental attack to hide the beat of armored horses galloping at her from either side. All Saber needed to do was redirect magical energy from her sword into her armor, as allowing the hammer to overwhelm her would give her sword enough space to repel the horses. Her battle instinct cultivated from a lifetime of soaring over the battlefield told her she’d take an appreciable amount of damage and may need to reform part of her armor but it’d cost less magical energy than trying to block all three attacks and failing. 

The neon-red blade started to dim as the fiery magical energy circulated her body reinforcing her greaves and vambraces, sculpting the mythril into interlocking swan feathers. 

“May the Lord have mercy upon your soul.” 

Rider began running the moment he landed. His sprint matched the galloping horses, bludgeoning the distance between Saber and himself as she struggled to bat the hammer away. He raised his gauntlet a second before the horses crashed into her and smashed the butt of the hammer. 

“AAAHHHHHH —!” Saber’s screams drowned out Rider’s own exclamation. 

They were nothing alike. There was absolutely nothing similar between the two. So then why was Saber’s mind superimposing _his_ image upon Rider? There was nothing there anymore, girl. He already died. You burned his body — you burned them all. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? So make that pyre hotter, make that fire burn brighter. 

— Maybe then you’ll finally feel something again. 

Amidst the sparks, horses, and magical energy: 

“Saber. . . activate your Noble Phantasm.


	23. 21/ Skrubtudsen

**21/ Skrubtudsen**

**~Interlude~**

ABERRATION DETECTED

Receiving RECORDS via PATH. . . CONNECTING. . . CONNECTING. . . CONNECTION FAILED

Receiving RECORDS via BOUNDED FIELD. . . CONNECTING. . . CONNECTION FAILED.

COULD (NOT) CONNECT TO THE BOUNDED FIELD. PLEASE CHECK LEYLINE SIGNAL AND RETRY LATER.

Proceeding with AUTONOMOUS mode — commencing re-scan of the LOCAL ENVIRONMENT.

FIFTH IMAGINARY ELEMENT SATURATION LEVEL. . . TESTING. . . TESTING. . . ANOMALY: THREE STANDARD DEVIATIONS ABOVE OVERALL MEAN.

LOADING CONTROL CHART - Compare with yesterday’s OUTLIERS.

LOADING WHITELIST - Attempting to find MATCH.

MATCH NOT FOUND. INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT!

ATTEMPTING to transmit RECORDS via remote PASS. . . via BOUNDED FIELD. . . via LEYLINE… ALL FAILED. PLEASE CHECK LEYLINE SIGNAL AND RETRY LATER.

Probability of encounter with CLASS FIVE threat CALCULATING. . . CALCULATING. . . 64.59 ± 12.78%. Beta > 0.2. Unable to RE-FIT model with MEASUREMENTS available. Unable to run SIMULATION to obtain additional VIRTUAL REPLICATES without switching MEASUREMENT CIRCUIT to MAIN POWER.

Null hypothesis CANNOT be REJECTED.

Null hypothesis CANNOT be REJECTED.

Maintain PERCEPTUAL DOMAIN as SUBJECTIVE.

Maintain AUTONOMY CIRCUIT on MAIN POWER. Maintain MEASUREMENT CIRCUIT on RESERVE POWER.

Maintain CAMERA on INFRARED.

Establishing PROTOCOL — REGRESS TO SPEED FORME.

PREPARING TO TRACK INTRUDER.

KILL on SIGHT.

*****

Legs reinforced, Amelia swiftly ran through the small forest with the boy on her back. The mental compass her magic circuits were maintaining reassured her that she was heading south towards the suburbs, so why was the brush getting thicker? West was where the forest reigned until giving way to Cardinal’s Peak.

Disconcerting. Dark forests were still rife with lingering mystery. Traditionally, to slip through the trees was to visit an unearthly, isolated world of tricksters, monsters, and fairies. With axes, man pushed back the dark. Then came the bulldozer and primates were able to venture into the heart. The forest may have been tamed, but the stories lived on. From Shakespeare’s _A Midsummer’s Night Dream_ to Sondheim’s _Into the Woods_ , entering the forest meant transitioning from the normal world into a primeval netherworld. The heart of the forest was no different to the belly of the whale. Dense forests were fertile ground for bounded fields — was Amelia’s first thought. After all, if a spellcaster like Amelia was able to find the hole in the bounded field the Iselma placed around their mansion, there was more than a good chance Lord Byron had placed countermeasures for escapees. Escapees who made it through the hole had two options: make their way around the circumference of the estate’s bounded field until the main road or forge directly through the forest. She entered through the forest without much trouble. Logic would dictate that when she made her escape, the forest would still be her best option. But magecraft substituted logic with a rulebook your adversary wrote but never revealed. As long a magus had enough time and resources, any outlandish hypothetical was rhetorical. The who, how, and why didn’t matter — there was only the enemy’s concept vs. the one in her holster.

Magecraft, Amelia had long thought, was nothing but two children playing make-believe, shouting at the top of their lungs that their version of the rules was correct. So how could there possibly be a ‘winner?’ The conclusion was both kids crying for their mommies. Let’s test your resolve against mine, Iselm—

“THIS BAND WAS NOT BUILT IN A DAY”

The boy on her back started to cough violently. His sudden writhing forced Amelia to stop moving. A seizure? She needed to find a space free of forest debris.

Boom.

An imaginary thunderclap traveled through the forest, sending quakes that grounded themselves in Amelia’s magic circuits. An explosion of magical energy from the nearby leyline? At least her reinforced legs kept her and the boy stable.

“dO nOt fOrGeT” and then —

*****

Thank the Gods you’re here, Captain. This idiot believes it’s the king’s job to investigate a phallus on fire.

Sounds painful but you are wise indeed your majesty. The citizenry must learn to keep their phalluses away from fire.

Fie! A fallacy, dear Captain, your majesty. Plain and simple.

A phallus here? Are you dumb, man? No one’s phallus is on fire, here. Captain, you see what I mean?

Messenger, speak! What is this phallus on fire we are not seeing? With haste, a manhood is at stake!

No phalluses on fire here! There is a fire, red phallus in the sterile flame! It’s a sign from the Gods, your majesty. You must consult the oracle!

They’re firing phalluses into the sterile flame, again? That might be more newsworthy, but isn’t that the erect — I mean exact — reason why I gave the temple all those virgins? So that there would be no more fired phalluses in the sterile flame.

Your majesty, I believe he’s saying that a divine phallus has appeared in Vesta’s sacred flame, not that someone fired their phallus into the flame.

Well why didn’t you say so sooner! Heavens, temple messengers these days. You know, they don’t make them like they used to. Had a very nice messenger from a different temple, very nice messenger. Used to be a slave, bought his own freedom, and worked as a messenger for the temple of Jupiter for ten years, very nice messenger. Died of a curse. All the good ones do. Don’t curse the messenger, they say. They always curse the messenger. You would know. Anyway, he comes up to the palace, what a nice palace you have your majesty, am I disturbing you? None of this rushing into my palace, hands waving — what is that? What is that in the first place? This. Groping the air. Do you think it’s going to get me to consult Tethys’s oracle any faster? Honestly, I don’t feel like going anymore thanks to you. A phantom phallus in the sacred flame. After all you’ve put me through, you should go deal with it, go on. Go on, give it a nice big suck, will you.

Your majesty, I believe you shou—

Yes, I know what I need to do thank you very much. Oh, your majesty, save us from the terror of the phantom phallus in the divine sterile flame. Find the answer from the Tethys’ oracle in Etrus. . . Captain?

Yes, your majesty.

Don’t answer this but am I a bad king if I don’t go and just. . . wait this one out. You know, see where it goes, eh.

THE SLOTH WAS BUILT ON HUBRIS

Do NoT FoRGeT

YOU CAN (NOT) PRUNE THIS BRANCH. SEVEN TREES A FOREST DOES NOT MAKE IF ONE IS ROTTEN. YOURS MAY BE AN EMPIRE BUT MINE IS OUR SIN BEFORE IT WAS OURS.

*****

When she regained consciousness, Amelia’s entire body revolted, sending her into cold sweats until her tactical camouflage gear clung to her skin.

That scene as hollow as a sit-com laugh track was a mental attack. From the bounded field? Unlikely. Something of that magnitude. . . . What did that king say, Etrus. . . Etrusca? That was ancient Tuscany. They were talking about a phantom phallus. Wasn’t there a myth about a famous Roman king, one who started out as a slave? No time for speculation, flush it out of your mind because you’re already in enemy territory while carrying a wounded civilian. First priority needs to be —

_— Duck_

A silver flash. It would have separated her head from her body if she hadn’t dived behind a large tree.

“Target DISAPPEARED. Switching to FIFTH IMAGINARY ELEMENT scan.”

The moment she landed, she reached into her pocket. There were two stones — her trump cards — and the grenade she was looking for. She peeked out to her right, pulled the pin, and lobbed it at the assailant before promptly rolling over and pushing the unconscious boy’s body as far down into the ground as possible while covering her own ears. She counted, five, four,

“Weapon DETECTED. Switching from SPEED FORME to DEFENS—”

One.

The modern death machine detonated. The explosion felt like the equivalent of all the tires in a hospital parking lot blowing out at once. The standard-issue M67 frag grenade was made up of an approximately 60/40 blend of RDX and TNT to deliver a kill radius of 5 yards with shrapnel that could reach even 15 yards. Usually, Amelia wouldn’t immediately resort to something so destructive, but she was carrying a civilian, had just been mentally attacked, and was now ambushed. This series of escalations would make anyone dread what could be coming next.

Even so, a normal grenade was useless to Spellcasters. The magi they hunted could easily defend against anti-personnel weapons through familiars, illusions, or even a spare body. After learning this, Amelia added an alchemical concoction her sister had left to her grenades. The smoke that was still magically lingering, as if bound to the air; refracted and dispersed magical energy, rendering the opponent’s ability to detect magical energy moot. The explosion was to put the assailant on the defensive and then the magical smoke would allow her to escape.

VVrrrrrrr.

That sound was not good.

Vrrrrrr. Vrrrrrr. Vrrrrr.

Something within the smoke was. . . whirling?

No time to wait around; she needed to pick the boy up and run.

_— You might actually make it if you leave him._

She turned to her left, but there was no one there. A hallucination then. Either an after-effect of the mental invasion, a feature of this bounded field, or a combination. Couldn’t worry about that right now.

_— A hallucination, babe? Do you really think a hallucination could have saved your life?_

The same voice that had told her to duck. No, that was Amelia’s own internal monologue or had the Iselma’s spell already taken hold? Then why would it try to save her life? Unless this was just all one big illusion — a midwinter's night dream.

_— Me, maybe but can an illusion do that?_

Amelia peeked out from the coiled tree roots to find the smokescreen now filled with wafting soap bubbles. She recoiled.

The famed Rainbow Spheres of Iselma.

When clumped together as a portable fortress, they could easily defend against any grenade.

Vrrrrr. Vrrrr. Vrrrr.

These bubbles originated from a small whirlwind in the center of the smoke. Her assailant was spinning, diffusing its defense. That made no sense, you should be concentrating i —

Pop

The first bubble dispersed the smoke around it and like a chain reaction,

Pop Pop Pop

_— Popidity Pop di Popty dooooooooooo_

PopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPopPop

And like her sister, the alchemical smoke was gone without a wisp remaining. In the center of the clearing, bathed in moonlight filtered through spindly branches was a bipedal figure dressed in a trench coat topped off with a fedora made for tipping. In place of hands were two holes. That was where the bubbles came from. An automaton. And one that used the Iselma’s trump card.

A shiver ran down Amelia’s spine when a useless piece of trivia —

_— Hmmm, interesting. So that’s what a Grand is capable of making._

Shut up.

You’ve been through worse. Remember when you were in that oil refinery and your target had trapped you in the airlock? You made it out. You’re alive, Amelia. And most importantly you’re here.

Amelia looked over at the boy, trying to see him as a ten-year-old girl, but she couldn’t, so she took a deep breath and drew her revolver out of her holster as she stepped out to face the automaton.

“Enemy FOUND. Scan COMMENCE. . . .”

The image was an injection. She had done it countless times. But the switch were the faces, some with eyes closed, some squirming, and a few little faces were filled with worry even if they were holding their mother’s hand. This small, small world was all that she ever sought to protect, and that sentiment locked her circuits into place while activating the mysteries living throughout her colon.

“Magic Circuit QUANTITY. . . E, QUALITY. . . C. Threat RANK — D”

She raised her revolver and started pouring magical energy into it. Twice in two days, huh. That’s the most she’s ever —

“REVALUATION. REVALUATION. Threat LEVEL — EX. REGRESS TO SPEED FORME — ASURENDA RAHU.”

The puppet started laughing, a metallic grinding screech that resembled nails on a chalkboard as two heads sprouted from its neck, and additional legs and arms extended out from its waist and shoulders, respectively. Attached to the end of each arm was a serrated, jagged blade. A total of three heads, four legs, and six blades, a mechanical Asura who could see-all and reach-all.

The laughing abruptly died upon transformation. Now, the puppet just stared at its prey, running through all the records it obtained from its predecessors. Mystic Eyes of Petrification, London Bridge, Logos React Replica. The magical energy within that gun had the same quality as the greatest mysteries it, or rather versions of it had previously faced. For the greatest threats, the puppet commonly used its attack forme. Each blade would begin to rotate, imitating a chainsaw, and then the bipedal puppet would spin, becoming something akin to a formerly popular children’s toy. But against Amelia, the puppet opted for the speed this centaur form provided.

“BADIN, KHARASKANDHA, VEMACITRA, RAHU - kings along the ocean - DELIVER THIS BODY FROM HARM!”

About ten yards separated the combatants. With its speed forme, the puppet would cut through that distance and dissect Amelia into seventeen pieces in less than two seconds. Even if she were to fire a fatal round, the puppet’s momentum would ensure her death. A ~~unilateral victory~~.

With a triumphant laugh, the puppet began its death march.

“Subsume”

A single count aimed at four blades.

One by one the attachments in Amelia’s pockets clicked onto the revolver and when the final piece, the fore-end, completed the pump she pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed as the Ether bullet was discharged as a shell. The force from the magical buck not only completely halted the puppet’s momentum but threw it back as the shots tore through its trenchcoat and the body underneath. These holes were not just physical; magical energy started gushing out. Unless the automaton was continuously receiving magical energy from an external source, it would quickly become inoperational. But Amelia wouldn’t switch off her circuits and let her magical energy fade away.

Knocked off all four legs, the puppet sawed open its chest while in mid-air.

From the beginning, its creator had not aimed to recreate the image of an Asura, questioning the limits of the artificial and the divine. That was nothing more than a ruse protecting the automaton’s true nature.

Matryoshka.

As if mocking Amelia’s shotgun shell, a second puppet was shot out of the automaton’s chest cavity like a harpoon. The final, revised surprise attack; no matter how supernaturally gifted, no modern combatant could both anticipate and react accordingly.

No modern combatant.

Was that why Amelia’s spluttering magic circuits were still rotating? Because the line between Master and Servant told her that Berserker was not only close, but in fact. . .

“HY—!!!!!!”

Like a rusted shooting star, Berserker eclipsed the moon, plummeting into the forest with her body parallel to the ground and elbow outstretched.

“—GIENE!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The steel nurse’s elbow drop smashed the puppet that flew out of its scrapped accomplice into the ground. The collision alone ripped off the automaton’s extremities and sent them flying.

What a ridiculous attack.

Just like the oil refinery, eh. When the girl Amelia had given up on smashed a briefcase into the smug face of the man holding her hostage.

Realizing that everything was over, Amelia’s knees collapsed onto the forest floor as magical energy receded from her magic circuits. Long night. What an understatement. She might have sighed, but couldn’t help feeling a little good about herself.

“Glad to see you arrived just in time, nurse,” she smiled at her Servant, getting off the ground and brushing the dirt from her crimson uniform.

Berserker pulled at her white gloves, snapping them in place. “Sanitation at the Iselma mansion was up to State standard. Servant Assassin was present at the event. Unable to detect any bacterial residue from cutlery used or surfaces touched. Without a biological sample, further analysis is —'' Before finishing her sentence, Berserker saw the boy lying on the ground. “Doctor, must I remind you of the oath you took?”

Amelia felt a little pang in her chest but chose to ignore it. “He’s stable.”

Even so, Berserker walked up to the boy and gave her impressions. “Eyes open even if there are no signs of consciousness.” She replaced the blindfold and put her hand over his forearms, “Numerous hairline fractures in both arms and first-degree burns. Doctor, did this child engage in combat?”

Amelia pushed herself off the ground. What an ideal nurse. Every bit as inspiring in person as the lists of quotes that popped up when you googled her name. But was this what she was really like or is what I see in front of me merely a reflection?

“His mother, Saber’s Master, requested that we take him to the Mission. Don’t worry, they have the resources there.”

Berserker struggled with her instincts as she looked at the boy once more. Amelia, on the other hand, walked right past her Servant and draped the boy over her back, “Let’s get going. I don’t like having an injured civilian in enemy territory.”

Both her body and circuits were aching, they had likely made an enemy out of the overseer, and worst of all Amelia had nothing to show for it.

“You’re a good Doctor, Master.”

Amelia looked back at her Servant but saw her younger sister’s face instead. Berserker and her sister didn’t look anything alike, but the words. . .

_“You’re different, Amelia. You’re a good person.”_

Amelia swallowed the lump in her throat. There would be time to regroup, convince the Craig girl to quit, and secure the Holy Grail. All she had to do was keep moving forward. For those close to her who lost that opportunity, Amelia would ensure their deaths were not in vain. Let their memories live through her actions. That was how Amelia Levitt decided to live, the reason why she agreed to fight in the Holy Grail War. No matter how worn her body or overwhelming the enemy might be, one step at a time. Do what you believe is right, and eventually. . .

_—Murderesssssss._

That sultry, snake-like voice made her head throb. Why did it sound familiar?


	24. 22/ Night, stay Knight (II)

**22/ Night, stay Knight (II)**

**~Interlude~**

Thunderous magical energy peeled Saber’s mythril armor as the horses on either side of Saber crushed her while burning alive. The hammer lodged in her chest began cracking her breastplate — the sparks from the head tearing at her skin. From the delighted expression on Rider’s face, no more than a few more seconds were needed to break through.

“How rigorously the Lord’s righteous anger courses through your pagan body, Saber!” He booms. “Why do you not rejoice? A smile would look better on that pretty face of yours.”

The tempestuous magical energy within the hammer swelled, salivating at the chance to devour Saber. 

“Saber! Please. It’s too dangerous!” Her Master cried out. 

Saber once loved a hero. Dearly loved. He had left her a ring. Through some devilish machinations, the hero was tricked into loving another. In the guise of her future husband, the hero took the ring back and gave it to his bride. The hussy had the nerve to dishonor her with it. That was as cold as powder snow now. 

The records that bubbled to the surface whenever a new piece of data ignited Saber’s neural network were smoldering cinders unable to reignite. But what drama that ring once wrought, what passion had been seared into the cultural consciousness.

Noble Phantasm — the crystallization of Saber’s legend as a knight of the sword. To reveal the proof of such a precious broken promise. . . now meant absolutely nothing. 

“What contrivance, Rider.” In the eye of the storm of magical energy that tore her mystery apart, she quietly mumbled. “Let me show you, what it truly means to hate.” 

In a single motion, Saber stabbed a horse’s neck with the formerly neon-red demonic blade, now reverted back to its natural gold. Ejecting burning magical energy from armored platform heels and using the embedded sword as her fulcrum, she backflipped onto the horse. 

“HHHHHiiiiieeeeeee” 

With no mythril buttress, Rider and the horses all crashed into each other, a jumbled mess of armor and hooves. 

Substituting her demonic sword as reins, Saber managed to pull back her wounded, sweltering horse with her natural Riding ability as the poor steed burst into flames. Although Saber-class Servants automatically obtained Riding as a class skill, Saber’s strong Magical Energy Burst (Flame) personal skill set everything she rode on fire, rendering it either dead or useless in seconds. Yet, Saber persisted, pushing the horse whose mane and tail now sent trails of embers across the plain into a gallop.

***** 

It seemed to Rider that Saber’s plan was to break through the bounded field before the horse expired. Since Rider no longer controlled the horse, it would no longer detmaterialize. Instead, he threw himself onto a fresh horse’s back and set off in pursuit. He’d teach her what happens to those who dared challenge his claim to his class.

But she stopped. 

But she turned her horse around. 

Only a madwoman would falsely retreat when there was no hope for reinforcements and her horse was on fire. Crazy, but how sternly beautiful Saber’s figure looked — divinity atop a flaming horse. This had to send his blood boiling. This had to force him to roar. This had to stir his Spiritual Core. 

Creaking broke his train of thought. Wooden musketeers riding carved cavalry were lined up beside him. On the back of one of the wooden horses was his lord. This small detachment must have been the promised support. 

“Will this be sufficient?” 

Rider claimed to prefer real soldiers, red-blooded men who fought for church and country. He had been given toy soldiers. Rider felt that as an insult, so he spat on the ground to show contempt. War was sacred, he told himself. It allowed man to elevate himself through primal competition. You were a mockery. 

“Enough, Milord.” 

“Then let me see what you are capable of, Rider.” 

Rider raised his hammer and charged. Following him was the host of wooden soldiers save one.

***** 

On the third night of Tolosa’s Holy Grail War, the regular thumping of hooves, real, wooden, and on fire drowned out all other sounds on the hill undergirding the Iselma mansion. Within the mansion, the remaining Masters and Servants in the opulent ballroom all watched silently, wondering if a solitary swordswoman could out-joust a small army led by a knight in shining armor. But there was one Master who lost all feeling in the pit of her stomach because it didn’t matter who would win. Her Servant couldn’t even come close to competing with what she saw projected in the magical bubble. She stood fast though, for she believed in her eyes that could see into the world, and they told her. . . .

***** 

Two hundred yards —

Saber urged the horse forward with her golden sword blade deep within the burning horse’s neck. He reminded her of the two solar horses that pulled the sun-chariot in the texture where she was manufactured and then born. The horse Saber was riding had no bellows to cool it down, though. What a hellish scene. The horse’s black pupils rolled into its forehead from the pain of being burned alive while patches of skin sizzled and contracted to reveal browning meat underneath. Most of its armor had already melted into molten slag that clung to its skin, mixing with the horse’s hair. Sitting on the dying animal, Saber’s almost haggard figure, her mythril swan armor fragmented and cracked, looked less like a solar deity and more a death goddess.

***** 

One hundred and fifty yards —

Rider paid no attention to Saber’s appearance. The ephemeral embers that trailed behind the horse were flakes of burning hair and skin. In place of muscle fibers were. . . scales? Like a serpent, the horse was shedding its skin until hooves became talons as sharp as knives, a lush mane became scaly frills, and those intelligent pupils were now vertical slits covered by transparent scales known as spectacles. As the transformation progressed the mount began rebelling, using its newfound strength in an attempt to buck its rider.

The Riding skill allowed for the supernatural knowledge and control of certain mounts. According to Rider’s Master, Saber’s Riding skill was ranked rose, a rank lower than his own white. While this would be more than enough to control horses, Phantasmal Species like the dragonkind she was now attempting to tame were beyond her. Yet, using sheer brute force and the sword in the draconic horse’s neck she retained temporary control, like captaining a burning ship against a storm. 

_“The sword allowed her to take control of the horse and transform it into a wyrm, so it would be more resistant to her flames.”_

_“A wicked Noble Phantasm.”_ Rider offhandedly remarked to his Master.

 _“A flaming swordswoman with a demonic blade that draconizes whatever it touches. My, what a grand Servant you’ve summoned, Matou.”_

“Aim!” Rider ordered. 

The puppet cavalry raised their muskets in unison. Each loaded ball had anti-spirit enhancements carved onto it, but they couldn’t harm the horse. To slay that draconic horse, the heads of the wooden horses opened to reveal small cannons filled with alchemical reagents. Preparing this small force alone must have cost a small fortune. Lord Byron had a small army. Were the Iselma not destitute and disgraced former nobles? Just how much did this apostate have riding on the Holy Grail War? 

Fifty yards — 

A pair of black, leathery wings erupted from the horse's back, completing the transformation. 

Rider’s smile was grim. 

There was religious ecstasy. There had to be. A knight of Christianity, Defender of the Faith had just been given an opportunity to smite down a pagan witch who transfigured a horse into an evil serpent. Let him reenact the legends of St. George, St. Martha, St. Mamilian, and others to prove his fealty to the Cause. But Rider, o’ hallowed hero of the western world, you averted your eyes because you understood the greed of man. To lust after that sword is to forgo one’s humanity. 

Finally, zero, but the jousters never met. 

Two powerful flaps sent Saber soaring. 

“Fire—!” Rider commanded his toy soldiers to let loose their first volley of projectiles.

The musket balls that dared touch the burning dragon’s hide burned to a crisp. As for the cannonballs, Saber did her best to control the draconic horse, weaving in and out of their flight paths, but rider and mount were not one; how could they be when the sword that bound them was the very thing that bisected the two. 

On impact, these cannonballs popped, delivering payloads of deadly mystical shrapnel. About four of the initial volley of ten grazed Saber’s mount, two were direct hits, crushing its ribs and breaking its back leg. Saber’s armor protected her to some extent, but her mount began to panic from all the carnage, becoming even more uncontrollable. 

“She’s trying to escape. Why now?” Rider asked. 

_“Chris Frampton, I presume.”_

An almost shrug from his Master. Rider had seen the footage Lord Byron collected of the two interlopers. A woman in tactical gear fighting a boy in Church robes slightly too big for him. The sentry puppets were unable to take a clear picture of the woman. Perhaps the governing body of this country managed to smuggle disruptive elements into this city. No, Berserker’s actions made it clear. That was her Master. The boy, on the other hand, was one of his Master’s projects — a safety so to speak. He was currently under Saber’s traitorous Master’s protection. 

Saber must have been sent to ensure the boy’s safety. Berserker would break a hole in the bounded field to return to her Master. When Berserker’s Master and the boy were safe, Saber would retreat through the hole in the bounded field Berserker created. That meant. . . 

_“Yes, Rider. ‘Veritas’ and Matou are in league.”_

They had been outplayed. Rider, who once gambled with kingdoms, would appreciate being outplayed by a worthy opponent. But not like this, he told himself. This was beneath him. 

“Reload—! 

Actual soldiers would have questioned their commander. By the time the automata finished and were ready to take the next shot, Saber would already be far out of their range. An elementary mistake from a supposedly world-class gen. . . 

—WHOOSH. 

Shot out of Rider’s hand was electrifying death. The hammer arched across the night sky, a medieval rocket aimed at Saber, still struggling with the draconic horse. Rider had made sure to shout ‘reload’ so loud that even the airborne Saber would hear him. Counting on a false sense of security, he threw the warhammer with all his strength.

The moment she felt the magical energy rocketing from the earth, Saber tore into the horse’s scaly back with her fiery left mythril claw to seal her left hand in place. The draconic horse writhed, twisting and contorting itself, hoping to dislodge either Saber or the sword in its neck. Saber obliged, drawing the demonic sword from its bloody sheath to intercept Rider’s hammer. 

Even though the two-handed warhammer had been thrown with the force of a bunker-busting guided missile, it eventually, unable to hold its own weight, fell from the sky before borrowed sparks met unkindled flame. 

As Rider watched the battered and bruised draconic horse limp through the hole in the bounded field, he realized Saber hadn’t fallen for his stratagem. She wasn’t even aware he called out in the first place. She moved because she detected magical energy, that was all. 

His right hand was shaking. Must have been from the throw. 

“Hahahaha.” Still mounted, Rider boisterously laughed into the night as the clouds began to cover the moon once more, “That Saber sure is something else.” 

What a jolly scene. What a noble man. 

Paragon of righteousness. Defender of the Faith. 

_“Personal skill: Madness Enhancement E+”_

“Crazy pagan bitch.” An unheard whisper in the wind. 

**~Interlude Out~**


	25. 23/ PenUmbra

**23/ PenUmbra**

“What’s so funny, kid? You’re disturbing my meal.” 

A squeaky voice pulls my consciousness into a dark cafe bar. Not an oppressive or gloomy dark, but a fertile, chaotic darkness that whispers that anything is possible. 

I turn to my neighbor. “Sorry, I just remembered a joke.” Then almost like an excuse, “I had a pretty rough night.” 

A tween in a cutoff blue dress and detached sleeves is eating what seems to be a salad with her hooves? Strange people come here all the time, but this one’s here quite a lot. I think her master has the Manager babysit her. It’s coming back to me now, her name is — 

“Salad any good?” I nurse my iced coffee, black. 

She tries to purse her lips into a pout but her mouth is too full. Almost a half-smile, but her eyebrows are raised, her cheek muscles twitching. Oh, I’m a bother. 

I sip my drink as an apology.

She digs right back into the salad. 

“AAAAHHH, no one does carrot salad like Hibiki. I knew it, someone with hair as orange as beta-carrotene can’t be bad!” 

“I think it’s beta-carot —” 

“NEHH-HH, you’re a few centuries too early to be correcting me, kid.”

“Sorry. Are those a new pair of earrings? They look nice on you.” 

“You really are tactless, aren’t you?” Contrary to her sweet-looking face that just yells ‘bully me’, she’s always been tough on me. “Constant remodeling.” She takes a large swig from her carrot juice and then wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “Ahhh, when will I be a proper book,” she says before looking up at the ceiling with glistening eyes. 

“But does it matter if you’re an ummm. . . .” 

“Pile bunker. You can say it. It’s not a dirty word.” 

“Okay, sorry, does it matter if you’re a pile bunker or a proper book? You’re still the same person who loves carrot salad.” 

“Vampire,” she holds out her left hoof. 

“Dead Apostle,” she holds out her right hoof. 

Tilting her head like a pigeon, “Do you _think_ there’s a difference?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. . .” 

“Kids these days need to read more than themselves,” she looks away in distaste. “The message. . . is the method. Pssh, nothing personal, kid, but no one cares about what you say. It all depends how you say it, as a gun, as a bayonet, as a book. I don’t like stabbing, gatling, or bunking, I just want someone to sit me on their lap, next to a fireplace reading me while feeding me carrots. Last time I checked, people don’t cuddle with their pile bunkers.” She picks up her glass by the rim and swirls the pulpy carrot juice inside as if she had the world-weariness to order three fingers of whiskey on the rocks. 

“I see. . .” 

“No, you still don’t get it, kid. What I’m trying to impart is a universal truth — structure decides function. You really should praise me for that nugget of wisdom. No, buy me more carrot salad!” 

“Hmmm, I thought it was more that function decides structure. What something is meant to do is what determines what it is. Like if you make a vessel that grants wishes, well, it’d naturally take the shape of a Holy Grail.”

She starts swinging her arms from side to side with a red, tearful face. “Not for us! Structure decides function! Structure does!” she pouts. “Our shapes determine the relationships we have with others and ourselves. These empty expectations create a role that was never waiting for us, a function. And when this shape changes, the very meaning of our existence changes. I’ve been a lot of things in the past so I know. You. . . You’ve just been that.” She tries her best to point accusingly at me with a hoof. “No matter how earnestly we might be written to convey our concepts, our shape automatically limits those interested in us. I. . . I want to appeal to the cute book crowd, not the thuggish gun fanatics!” 

“Seems like you chose the wrong organization to serve.” I cool my hands around my tumbler. “No offence, but I don’t see how that applies to me. I’m just your basic high-school kid.” 

“Hmph, you’re pretty slow. I had a temporary master once. Lowest of the low, he was.” She lets her face rest on the edge of a hoof, really trying her best to make me believe that carrot juice was fermented. “And even he was more astute than you. Or maybe you just don’t want to see what’s _not_ right in front of you.” 

“What does that mean?”

“Are you happy?”

“Of course, I’m always happy,” I instantly answer. 

She leans on her hoof, “How do you know that, kid?”

Let me count the ways. “I have meaningful relationships with people I like, am gaining knowledge that will help me in the future, and a clear path to a career where I’ll be doing impactful work. I think I’m pretty privileged. Nothing to complain about. So yeah, I’m happy.”

“That’s why you’re just a kid. I used to be like that too, thinking that I was happy because I was doing something I thought I should do, something that made people happy. So I kept telling my mom that I was really happy, really glad, but she couldn’t hear me and died.”

A young girl in a white dress stands on an elevated platform. Her head held high, eyes sparkling under the blue sky. A virginal snow-white carpet divides the sea of reed seats into two sections. The guests of honor sitting in the first row are religious dignitaries from far and wide. A wedding. The most important-looking person steps up onto the platform and speaks to the crowd. She says many things: 

Merry things. 

Kind things. 

Congratulatory things. 

And then stabs the girl’s heart with a horned spear. 

The crowd cheers and the girl dies with a smile on her face no one else can see. 

What the girl’s mother saw on the corpse's face was her own failure. A mother isn’t supposed to let her child die so easily. That’s what she must have thought. The only saving grace was that she didn’t know how truly happy and eager her child was to sacrifice herself. Knowing that would have led her to true despair instead of a detached depression that ended her life.

“Then I met my master. She’s a brutal devil who really doesn’t know how to take care of me. Worse than that, she branded me with this,” she points to the tattoo on her forehead, “and welded all this junk onto me,” and jangles her metal accessories. “I ran away and found a temporary Master, the same one I told you about and he asked me ‘by running away aren’t you saying you actually like your Master?’”

For all his rough edges, he really was an astute guy, she adds underneath her breath before continuing. “Harbouring gratitude, getting emotional, wanting to repay a favor. I martyred myself without feeling any of that. I was a normal girl so I did what I believed I should, sacrifice myself. Go make a mistake, kid.’

“Mistake. . . what type of mistake are you talking about?”

“Have you ever been walking along a road and tripped over a rock?” 

I shake my head. Come on, I’m not _that_ clumsy.

She scrunches her face for a second, then, 

“I hadn’t either.” 

So what’s the problem? 

Her face loosens as she turns to face the bar. “Hey, I think someone’s calling you.” She points over the counter at a black door in the cafe’s kitchen. 

Yeah, I can make out my name and also some mewing? I guess I should take a gander. Leapfrogging over the bar counter, I walk into the kitchen and approach the door. Time to see what on the other side could be calling my name, but before that: 

“Hey, Seven?” I ask the guardian spirit of the iron hammer that renounces reincarnation. 

“What, kid?’

“Thank you for your service.” 

She blows a raspberry. 

I twist the doorknob and enter Ahnenerbe’s basement.

*****

_Cuatro_

_Dos_

_Tres_

Smooth elevator music on repeat offsets the winding staircase that leads into a candy fairytale village. Gingerbread houses with strawberry iced roofs pop out from the ground, the walls, and even the ceiling of the cavern. Like tombstones. Then the pink castle at the center of the village center must be the mausoleum. 

The bass quickens and the horns flare as the track becomes dotted with electronic accents. Cats. They come out from the houses, the ground, and even the village well. Enough humanoid cats in granny skirts to fill the screen begin to rocket around the village. 

“CAT, FUCK, CAT, WELCOME TO HELLCATS!” 

A force of cats that look exactly the same as the others detach from the swarm and head in my direction. 

“It’s the Abbadon Forces — nyaa!” The murmur runs through the swarm of cats, unable to stop their rockets.

“I heard nyast time the Abbadon Berets lost to a C-Chinya.” 

“L-lost? They outright surrendered!” 

“Our village is Chinyese, nyaow?”

“Nyo, Nyo, we’ve always loved China, loved the party! Don’t censor our Boogaloo!” 

“I-Idiots! The Elite NECO-Corps lost to a Chinya Girl, not Chinya. Remember that climactic battle we filmed? The one where the Twenty-Seven made their final stand?” 

“Ac-ktual-ly there were twenty-seven minus five plus one extra, nyaa! But Kitsy-chan’s Bread Amalgam Titan Forme was soooooooooooo cool. Worth spending a hundred cats’ monthly sardine money in licensing and CG. CG was out of this world, nyaa. Looked like actual bread.”

“Nyo, nyo. You’re c-completely missing the point of the climax. It wasn’t just about a giant bread monster punching a pantsless China Girl. Cats gotta consider the emotionya depth. Like when Master Panyda appeared to face his f-former apprentice. I cryy errytime.” 

“Did y-you cats really believe the animators are going to have time to include the entire China Girl Master Panda backstory? Who even cares, nyaa.”

“They c-could have at least included a dream sequence to explain how he really felt. . .” 

“Anyone who c-can’t appreciate the Twenty-Seven fighting against a TATARI powered seemingly pantsless G.China Girl for what it is has s-shit taste. What’s important is the Nyetflix executives liked it. ” 

“#Endgame most ambitious crossover move over, nyaa! Sell-out, nyaaaaaaaaaaa, more like SOLD OUT! We have the Eiichirou hand-drawn Sajou Ayaka. Cat Hell, we have the five star final ascension Shapeless Isle twin goddesses from that super popular mobile game making a cameo. A-And the twist at the end where the cute mascot character turned out to be the Second Ancestor, cosmo murder. They’ll lap up anything as long it's poured into a milk bowl.” 

“Isn’t that when the Chinya Girl left? She figured out her brother wasn’t here and the true villain was the other giant little sister. That’s why our village was spared, nyaa.” 

“I-Isn’t that enyding way too unsatisfying? Endings these days have to be d-dark.” 

“T-That just leaves room for a sequel. A-Audiences love trilogies. inb4 Neco-Arc Vs Saber Wars The Movie — Episode IV: A Nyaa Hope. Coming soon!” 

Busy bickering over which interpretation of the flaws and strengths of Neco-Arc The Movie 2: Electric Boogaloo would be the most valid if it was ever released, the swarm quickly forgot about me. 

Except for the cats they called the Berets who don’t even wear berets crying, “Abbadon all hope ye who enter the Great Cats Village!” 

I continue walking down the path. 

“Why won’t you listenya!” The Berets snarl in unison, “We’ve spent years trying to perfect that line!” 

But I continue walking down the path. 

One of them manages to catch and tug at my shoulder. I don’t think I can brush it off so I’ll follow the pressure to face the cat but. . . 

Pale. 

Not a blank white that melts everything in the world, but a sickly pallor washes over the village. No more houses, just rotting piles of unconsumed meat, grey from decay. 

Not uncoordinated bickering, but a chorus of buzzing chirps you might hear under a tree in the Tolosa’s countryside. 

No cats, only locusts, pale and bloated as corpses. 

As large as horses, they buzz around the rotten vale, chirping their ancient song of a calm, gentle dark. They sing to themselves, they sing to each other, they sing to the darkness where the cat’s castle stood. 

So what’s touching my shoulder isn’t the velvet of a cat paw. Spindly, cold, iridescent like it was covered in an exoskeleton. There’s a slight crunch as it applies pressure on my shoulder. Reluctant eyes move from my shoulder to what’s in front of me. 

Exoskeleton becomes sickly skin in the middle of the thorax. Attached to the trunk is a wrinkled but waxen face with sunken hollow eyes. Clinging onto the crown is a long tress or mane of limp, greasy hair. 

Its voice comparable to the most seductive siren sings the song of its brethren. 

_Forsake not your faith, meager flame. And let abyssal woe sound._

Doing my best to back away, I trip. Not over a stone, but myself and start tumbling, tumbling down the path until the nest of locusts snaps into nothing but a pale hole.

*****

My whole body aches but I’m able to push myself off the vinyl floor and begin my descent down the school corridor. It’s hard not to feel the oppressive spirit of the institution when it’s scrawled onto butcher paper emblazoning the walls.

Wait. 

~~It’s dark but I can see the path immediately in front of me. I must have fallen into some cavern. Some acoustics, if a voice reached all the way to the Ahnenerbe door. But if you were to look at the soft, glistening walls and the gravelly, wet dirt that pushes back instead of compacting, it’s more likely this place is the inside of a body.~~

Wait.

No need, just a stray thought to be immediately dismissed. 

After continuing to the end of the corridor, I make it to my locker.

As for the person calling my name. 

“Morning, Kayla.” I say without looking down at the girl sitting underneath the locker next to mine. “Farmer’s tonight, right?”

Thursday’s downtown Farmer’s market. The city calls it a farmer’s market but it's more like a little festival. Vendors and restaurants throughout town set up stalls on the main street, there’s live music, and even some solicitors who want you to sign this petition or join this cause. For high school couples, it’s an institution. Being seen at Farmer’s with your ‘bae’ is equal to being Instagram official. 

_— Chris. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . foam._

“Sorry?” I look down. There’s no one there. 

Oh, she must have just been my imagination. I drop my bag, fiddle with the combination, fail once, make a face at my locker, and try again — 

Wait. 

You’ve had that locker for longer than a year now. You know the combination by heart, 08-22-04. So why do you always fail once? Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten so used to failing the first time that I feel uneasy when I don’t. Something psychosomatic, but that doesn’t sound like me. 

As long as the same gears grind, the mechanism moves. Thus, yesterday cannot be different from today. Without a wish, without hope, it responds no matter who turns the dial. How promiscuous. . . 

But it’s not the lock’s fault, no. 

It’s me who gives meaning to what the lock seals away. 

It’s me who gives meaning to those I want the lock to dissuade.

This lock just clicks open when the dial passes the correct three numbers. 

Click. 

Like so. 

I reach in and feel something soft and round. I don’t remember putting a basketball in my locker. I don’t even play. Maybe Ian’s locker was full and he asked me to look after that ball for a night? Lord, he loves that ball. He even polishes it in class. 

So I take it out and what was calling my name stares at me. 

“Kay—” I manage to croak out. 

Sandy blond hair framing a heart-shaped face with green-grey eyes. 

Without a doubt, I’m holding my girlfriend’s head. 

Don’t drop it, no, her. 

The mouth twitches and the eyes follow to curve into a smile. 

I. . . 

_“All of us, no matter who we are,”_ Please don’t say it. _“are merely ~~idiotic, pathetic, weak human beings~~ foam.”_

The tidal wave of  heads in my locker pours out, knocking me to the ground.

Beyond the number of human heads are their voices. They reject, they converse, they argue, they decry, they proclaim, they joke, they lecture, they accept. Every word creates a new meaning. Every meaning demands a reaction. Every reaction leads to a critique. The law of conservation of events? Ha, the bands snapped when humans started trying to express themselves. 

The talking heads cover my body demanding my attention while expanding like soap bubbles, stretching, coalescing, and popping, each a tiny bubble in cosmic foam. Without a reason, without a moment’s notice, entire universes are created and destroyed, yet the overall shape stays the same.

I can’t help but accept that I’m laughing.

Even if the sea of screaming bubbles reaches my waist, crying out: stop for a moment and see our pain, I can’t see them, I can’t hear them because they’re only bubbles that linger for a moment and pop, easily replaced with another. 

Even—tually I’m dragged into the foamy undertow. Millions of bubbles, millions of voices, millions of forsaken. Considering my past, I should be terrified of drowning. Aquaphobia. I’m gasping for breath and my sight is fading fast, but I can’t stop laughing. 

Even when flames erupt from the bubbles, illuminating the black ember which asks me how I can continue to fail to reject what’s so clearly in front of me if. . . 

“Sorry.” 

Yes, because

everything is,

nothing is,

. . . merely foam.

*****

I reach over my bedside table for my phone. Who left a lollipop on top of it? Cherry knows that I can’t do candy. Anyway, the white numerals on the screen tell me it’s still morning, but going to school isn’t an option. My arms are also bandaged. Last night, right. I went to the Ferrini Open Space to make sure the Dead Apostle wasn’t at the Master get-together. Everything after that flashes through my mind: the news that Father Phahn was a Master, having to run from the Iselma’s automated security, losing to Lancer, and then being saved by Saber. I. . . have no idea who brought me back. I suspect it was Saber.

 _. . . The team that he had left at the Tolosa Mission to oversee this Grail War, whether it be out of ambition, loss, or spite. . . obtained Command Spells and summoned a Servant. . ._

Yeah, I know, I can’t keep turning a blind eye. A decorated member of the Eighth Sacrament, Father Phahn wouldn’t lie. Out of all the people who were originally going to help oversee this conflict, the only two who meet the qualifications to summon a Servant are Cherry and me. Damn it, why. . . It’s okay, there’s nothing I can do about it right now, so it can wait until after I’ve finished using my morning routine. 

Make sure to get today’s login bonus; don’t want to miss out on that. But there’s no time to play the game because you have to do your daily hearts for Kayla’s Instagram. Scrolling down, it seems like everyone who followed you and then you followed back, or you followed and they followed you back are living eventful lives to their fullest. Good on them. 

I finished before I could check the news. Well, wet my hands, two pumps of hand soap, twenty seconds of scrubbing remembering to pay special attention to the inside of the nails, and then twenty seconds in hot water, dry on my towel. Brush teeth: two minutes then put the toothbrush back in the charger because you need to floss. Wait, I forgot to wipe the toothbrush clean with a square of toilet paper. Enough hard water scum leads to a brown crust. The Oral-B toothbrush manual always recommends drying it after brushing. As for flossing, I can never truly get my back teeth but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. 

While flossing, I remember drinking my usual iced coffee with someone who was eating carrot salad, no wasabi, at Ahnenerbe. I went into the basement because someone called my name. Not too sure what happened next. Well, it can’t have been too important — just like the letter on my desk I haven’t opened.

*****

“Hey. Sorry about yesterday.” I close the door behind me before fluffing the old man’s pillows so he’s comfortably propped upright. He looks the same as he did the last time I saw him.

“Worse for wear,” he says with a small nod at my bandaged arms. Uncanny, what a blind person can notice. 

“Yeah these. . . don’t worry about them.” I sit in the chair beside his bed. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” 

“Even after what happened two days ago? By the look of you, boy, you’re finally hunting vampires.” 

Oh, Cherry must have told him. She comes up here sometimes to help clean.

“That’s not how I got this, though.” Last night’s clashes ring in my ears. Sounds come from mistakes made. “You know, the Holy Grail War is really white.” Light conversation is good for taking your mind off things. “Starting to wonder why we had to run that diversity seminar last year.” 

He turns to me, “You say that like you’re not white.” 

“Am I? I mean I’ve never really looked at my birth certificate and people tell me I could pass as Hispanic.” 

“You’re a vanilla Tolosa white boy, Chris, or at least you want to be.” He almost barks my name.

“I guess.” I want him to continue. 

“Hmph,” he obliges. “Tolosa’s so white it doesn’t matter what you are — if you’re going to try to fit in, you’re white. But that doesn’t mean they’re going to treat you white. Ha! Holy Grail War. The only magi insane enough to fight for a wish-granting vessel are unbelievers who assume they deserve the Lord’s divine blessing.” 

I nod at something that I don’t have to agree with. “Then we’re a sorry pair aren’t we, an old black man mentoring this vanilla white boy.” 

“Didn’t we talk about this before?” 

I think so. Maybe it was one of the numerous times we camped on the Sister behind the Mission and gazed out at the washed-out stars together after a long day of tracking or target practice. Maybe it was when we’d sit together and he’d tell me all the stories he liked from his bible. Maybe it was none of those times and because interacting with this old man throughout the years made me aware of his opinion on this topic without having to discuss it at all.

“But it matters, doesn’t it,” I insist. “How we’re seen and remembered. That’s how Heroic Spirits are born.”

“And how will you remember me?” he asks, his voice never cracking. 

“Come on old man, you’re what they call ‘old but not out.’ You’ve still got some years in you. At least we’ll get through the next two weeks.” 

“You’re doing a terrible job of trying to convince yourself,” the old man says. 

No one’s trying to convince anyone of anything because there’s sincere sentiment in what I said. 

The old man takes a sip of his water. “We were never talking about me, were we?” 

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Do all Executors feel desperate when they’re hunting Dead Apostles. . . Did you —?”

“Righteous anger, lust for vengeance, wanting to protect something. Those are the most common emotions you’ll come across. But desperation you say. . . I do remember hearing of a particular Executor who was desperate to kill Dead Apostles in my time. Joined the Church because he had the ability and thought he could use it to make the world a better place.” 

“And faith?” 

“Quite faithful, but never the most pious. Faith is a funny thing Chris: we talk about having faith in the Lord, faith in the Church, faith in ourselves. We actively ascribe faith in these things to protect our own faith. That was the urgency this man felt. The more he saw, the more he experienced, the more he felt he was losing himself. So, he kept killing Dead Apostles to prove to himself no matter how much of himself he lost, he was still himself; he still had faith. Eventually, he became a husk that could only affirm his own past each time he felt his Black Keys purifying a Dead Apostle.”

“I see.” 

“I told you that you were the type to follow orders blindly because I’m the same. But — these past five or so years have been nice.” His hand goes up to his blindfold behind which should be two empty sockets. 

I see. I really do. But I want to feel like we’re different. That I won’t go down that path because each of us is different, unique, and shut up Dilo. 

“Is that why Dilo chose you to be the overseer? N-not the following orders blindly thing, but because of your experience. I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this.”

“What do you think?” 

“Well, that seminar made it sound like you might have been a token diversity hire.” 

“Surprised you think so little of the man who raised you, Chris.” Yeah, me too. I think it's normal to underestimate the elderly. Find me a kid my age who idealizes them instead. “None of this is Dilo’s design. I’m overseeing because I want to.” 

“And the Church was okay with that?” 

“They had no say; they needed someone to supervise you and I was the obvious choice.”

“Because you’ve fought a Servant.”

“That’s all in the past, Chris. The Tolosa Mission is no longer overseeing the Grail War — you’ve decided to hunt this vampire instead.” 

“I —” 

He stops me, “You’ve followed all the protocols from your online program and employed all the tracking techniques that I’ve taught you, yet you haven’t found a single clue. You came to visit me today only to ask if there was something missing from your training if I had some trump card up that could help you magically find this vampire. No, Chris, you’ve taken everything that I am. You decided to hunt this vampire, so then the question you need to be asking yourself now that all the traditional methods have failed is: what are you willing to give up to hunt this vampire?”

*****

“Glad to see you alive and kicking, fam.” Father Kelsey leans back on a dining table chair. “All that hard work getting those Missions to lend us their relics finally paid off, huh.”

So that’s why my arm is mostly healed. In preparation for the Holy Grail War we cashed in centuries of favors requesting artifacts and shrouds from the other Missions in the state. None of the other Missions wanted to part with any of their relics: they would be lost in the carnage or worse, squandered on heretics. How did we convince them, again? Right, Father Kelsey was running point on that. He held up some letter he got from a higher-up and told the rest of us not to worry. God, that feels like more than just half a year ago. 

“I woke up a bit earlier, and went up to see how —” Damn, “That letter. . . .” 

He blinks twice. 

“The other Missions didn’t want anything to do with the Grail War. You waved this magical letter and they all started coming to the negotiating table. I always thought it was something from the Eighth Sacrament or the old man sent a letter to one of the Cardinals in charge of Executors but that was Dilo wasn’t it?” 

“Dud—” he catches himself this time, “Chris.” 

I run my hand through my hair. “It’s whatever. Did you know Cherry was a Master as well?” 

The right side of his face slightly twists as he motions for me to sit in the chair opposite to him like I’m a kid in the youth group he runs behind the Mission. 

“Yeah, no. Look, it’s complicated.” He lightens his tone into the one he uses to counsel kids whose parents are either way too religious or aren’t in the picture. “Shirt, Cherry should be the one explaining this to you. Okay, from what I understand, when Dilo asked Cherry to help with the overseer thing, he also asked her to be a Master if things went south.” 

“Like he knew something bad would go down?” 

“I don’t know, I really. . .” he catches himself snorting softly and smiling to himself. “Come on, what do I always say?” 

“Just because marijuana is legal doesn’t mean it’s harmless, especially for teenagers whose brains are still developing?”

His gesture says, ‘the other one.’ 

“A literal interpretation of the Bible may state that homosexuality is a sin, but the Lord preached love in all forms. Magecraft on the other hand does no such thing, it muddles the connection between us and the Divine, deepening divides, separating people, failing to deliver users to the Kingdom of the Lord?” 

He presses his forehead. “Appreciate you remembering all those important lessons, bud. Geez, that last one was a tough conversation to have.”

I’m guessing he forgot the conversation we had about how being pro-life does not mean you should cherish the life of a Dead Apostle since while something that moves is technically ‘alive,’ this does not mean it has life. 

“Backups! I always say you need backups.” He throws his arms up. “Right? It’s not just me, right? I always tell those kids, sure, your dad might want you to go to Caltech but how about applying for a few State Universities.”

“The Church didn’t just want someone from Fuyuki who had experience with this type of ritual for logistics support and to train the new overseer. Dilo wanted her because she was a former Master and a member of the Founding Three Families, so a mark of the chosen would almost certainly manifest. But why participate? She’s just gone and made things worse. Father Phahn’s labeled her a rogue element and summoned his own Servant. What? You’re doing that thing when you’re worried”

He wrenches his face into a smile. “You’re a good kid, Chris, to worry about all this, but the Holy Mother said Phahn’s the overseer. You don’t need to worry about the Grail War anymore.” 

I take a deep breath. He’s right. What Cherry, a Master, does must be her own business. I doubt she wants us to get involved either. She’ll be fine. I know firsthand how capable she is as a Master and the strength of the Servant she summoned. Leaving magi squabbles to magi is always applicable advice.

“She’s still living with us, though.” 

“Of course,” Father Kelsey says slowly. “This is her home. . . and where she works. Also not gonna lie, but her Servant is pretty cute. She’s kind of got that sad, silent, cyber-fantasy look going for her.” 

I raise an eyebrow. 

“Dude, just because I’m celibate doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate.” 

Oh, Father Kelsey, if you just knew how many at-risk girls in your Youth Group dream of making you realize that God is a woman.

“You can appreciate whoever you want, Father. But she’s not real, she’s a Ghost Liner — the silhouette of a soul shaped by legend seared onto the scroll of the Human Order.” 

“Forking magi, and their convoluted expressions.”

“Forking, really?” 

“It’s a new thing I’m trying. One of the kids at Youth Group said their parents were not okay with them watching this show on Netflix because it blasphemed against how God ordered His universe.” He shrugs with some guilt on his face, “But hey, we didn’t get that Netflix subscription just for ‘Movie Nights at the Mission,’ okay.”

This is getting off-topic, time to get out of this chair. 

“You’re not going to be looking for Masters, right? 

“There’s a vampire in town.”

“Chris,” his voice quivers for a moment. “Father Phahn brought a small army of Executors with him. Leave it to them. You’re not ready to be hunting vampires by yourself.” 

“I know,” I lie. “It’s Thursday though, Farmers’. With the Grail War going on, they’ll be spread thin. I’m going to do some routine surveillance and make sure the bounded field is maintained around Higuera. And you know, Farmers’ date night.” 

His expression relaxes. “Tell Kayla I said hi.” 

I nod. Before I leave the Mission, I’ve got to figure out where Father Phahn’s base of operations is. Then the hard part, convincing him to leave this vampire to me.


	26. 24/ Mirabilis Deus in Sanctis Suis

**24/ Mirabilis Deus in Sanctis Suis**

The doorbell rings and we’re greeted with a cheerful “Welcome to Ahnenerbe. Table for two?” 

Talk, Mary. You’re the adult. 

Mary’s expecting me to say something since I was the one who had an appointment. 

We’ve been silent for too long. The orange-haired waitress looks worried now. 

Fuck it, “Hi.” Fuck, why do you sound like a telemarketer. “Ummm, we’re waiting for someone. I think he might have made a reservation under Laurent?”

The hostess lifts a page from the clipboard and makes an ‘o’ with her mouth, “We’re a little busy at the moment, but I can clear a table — oh, Chika is already clearing it. Would you like to wait here or at the bar?” 

“Bar’s good.”

‘Why,’ Mary says with her eyebrows. 

‘I just gave an answer,’ I return with my own eyebrows. Then a ‘you should have said something if you wanted to wait here’ jut of my jaw. 

She blinks. I don’t think she got what the jut meant. 

“Can I help you with anything else?”

Mary’s left raised eyebrow accuses me. 

I roll my eyes because speak up if you want something, geez. Nothing stopping you. But, whatever, let’s get going.

We end up with our backs to the bar, sitting on stools about a foot apart, wordlessly watching the green-haired chica (hostess’s words), stack the half-finished plates each layered with used napkins soaking in sauce or drippings from what will be our table. People in this town really don’t get how wasteful they are. 

Laurent should be arriving with his friend any minute now. I’ve known Laurent for. . . a while. There’s something special about him that’s comforting and trustworthy. Like he’s seen so much that nothing really bothers him anymore, so of course the Grail wouldn’t choose him as a Master. He has no need for a wish. 

“Why, Master Alcatraz, it hasn’t been _that_ long.” 

On my right is a tanned, middle-aged man in a black sports jacket and matching pants holding a blue flip phone. Older phones are so much more interesting than phablets. 

To my left is Mary with clasped hands in her lap. She’s nervous. First time she’s been ‘herself’ in public. Apparently, Taco Bell doesn’t count. “You sure his head ain’t cut? What sort of outsider would want to get himself involved?” 

“He’s a good person who wants to help us.” 

“Come on, come on. When’s the last time we spoke? Years by my reckoning.” 

Mary catches herself and swallows the Irish in her before speaking, “There are good folk out there who really want to help, even have your best interests at heart, but they’re not you, dearie. If they fail, they’ll say sorry, go to an establishment like this, sigh, and order a pint. But you. . . you won’t. You can’t.”

“I know.”

“Why, we are all your pupils, Master. This? Just some business. Nothing related to you. . .”

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

We’re not talking about the Holy Grail War, are we?

“An old friend asked me to pop by and I wanted to thank you for looking after my girls.”

How enviable. 

“I get that, but we’re up against knights, vampires, and Hercules. Laurent is a mage, may-gas, whatever. I’m a teenager, you’re a cook. Let’s hear him and his church friend out.” 

To have experienced that. To feel the need to warn me about that. What a full life you must have led, Mary. 

“But it turns out I’m not the only one related to you in this town. Oh, hung up.” The man looks at the phone for a moment and then places it on the bar counter before starting to walk away. 

None of my business, I just want to shout something. 

“Hey, you left your phone on the table!” 

Both Mary and the tanned man turn to look at me. He smiles, she doesn’t. 

“You’re Nadine, aren’t you?” 

Stop looking at me, Mary. I don’t know what’s going on either. 

“I’m Laurent’s friend. Let me pop to the bathroom real quick.” 

“What about your phone?” 

“Not mine, leave it.” 

What?

*****

“Let's wait for the old bastard before ordering.” The man folds his menu and leans back so one arm dangles behind our booth. “Never thought I’d have the chance to meet a Ghost Liner before.”

“This is. . .”

“I’m Mary, pleased to meet you.” She inclines her head. “You’re a man of the cloth?” 

He wags his finger at us with a twinkle in his eyes, “Is that what Laurent told you? No, no. Well, yes. Yes, I guess I am technically part of the Church again. Have to get used to that. Oh, where are my manners, Lorenz Trendel.” 

He holds his hand out. It betrays that dad-joke of a face of his. Only Rich’s hands came close to how rough this man’s hands are. After releasing my hand it goes straight back to his side of the table. Strange. 

“Father Trendel, then?” Mary asks respectfully. 

“Just call me Lorenz, ma’am. Father Trendel was my dad.” Did he just? “And to be frank, I haven't had a single priestly duty for more than a decade.” 

Let me get this straight. 

“You’re technically part of the church, but you’re not a priest. Do you just volunteer at bake sales for the tax write-off?” 

A mischievous smile brimming with innocence. It’s borderline disgusting. Nothing like the bowl-cut priest’s soft serpentine. 

“My daughter used to ask me questions like that. For someone in our line of business, we use the terms Church and church interchangeably. It’s easy to forget how esoteric these concepts might be for outsiders.” He clears his throat, “As you know, there’s the Catholic Church: a major religion, elects a Pope, main power is in the Vatican, its priests wear funny hats, etc. There’s also the Holy Church, or the Church.” 

“Surely, they are the same organization; the Church is the Church?” Mary protests. Oh yeah, she’s Catholic. 

Lorenz closes his eyes and nods. “I see why Laurent asked me to meet you.” 

Because even if the Master is an ordinary person, a Heroic Spirit usually is not. In my case, the worst Master summoned the worst Servant. What a joke. I don’t know if we’re supremely compatible or the opposite.

“I’m allowed to say this because I’m not really a priest anymore.” Famous last words, much? “I preached at a small church in the Netherlands. The village burned down; my church included. Terrible accident. I had some very good friends; all perished in the fire. Their daughter survived. We were the only survivors. That’s when I realized God had put me on this earth to take care of this girl. I. . . wasn’t the greatest priest anyway. About ten years ago, some very bad men wanted my research. They went so far as to send a paramilitary unit to retrieve me. I left my daughter and her maid with the owner of this cafe. We’re good friends. The two waitresses who work here? Went to high-school with my girls.” 

Oh, so that’s why we’re meeting at this cafe. 

“The organization chasing me was persistent. I eventually got in touch with the Holy Church and they sorted it all out.” 

There’ll be a movie with that plot in five years. Nominated for best picture, won’t win. 

“My research at the time was. . . unbefitting of a priest. And that’s what the Holy Church deals in.” 

“An inquisition?” Mary piques. 

Well, as they say, no one suspects. . . 

“Not wrong,” Lorenz taps the menu. “Christians believe the Bible is the Word of God. That would mean anything that dissents from the scripture and the doctrine resulting from that scripture is heretical, no?” 

We both nod. She, from years of brainwashing. Me, because Lorenz and I both know the question behind the divine authenticity of Christian traditions can’t be summed up in two sentences, the second of which is a rhetorical question. 

“But, wait! If God created all and He is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-good doesn’t that mean he created the heretical as well?” A mock gasp. 

Sounds like a question that turned wealthy land-owners into full-time philosophers. If the Bible is the Word of God and Christianity derives its doctrine from that text, then how do believers reconcile things that don’t exist within that text?

“More than a thousand years ago, a Supreme Ecumenical council for all denominations was gathered. Through their artificial providence an Eighth Sacrament was created. Those who partook in this Grace which does not exist were allowed to be involved with heretical matters. Military outfits were commissioned to protect churches against heresies. A force was assembled to retrieve holy artifacts from heretics. The Cardinals commissioned agents to execute the Lord’s will, destroying monstrosities that were not part of His natural order. And finally, for her suffering faithful, the Church prepared solemn pilgrims with minds of steel to exorcise demons. This is the Holy Church, the singular from the Council’s universal.” 

I can’t help but think there’s something ~~wrong~~ in those words. 

“Black magic is heretical. Yet, you’re good friends with a magus, how did that come to pass?” 

“Why ma’am, let the old bastard himself tell you.” He winks at someone behind our booth. 

“Lorenz, old friend! So glad you could make it on short notice.” 

Coming from behind us, Laurent removes both his hobo jackets and slips off his beanie with one hand before vigorously shaking Lorenz’s hand with the other. 

“No problem at all, in fact, my pleasure. I was just telling the girls here how this meeting gave me the perfect excuse to ambush some old friends.” Lorenz shuffles along his bench towards the window, giving Laurent space to sit down. 

“The old padlock, huh. So, he’s still kicking?” Laurent shakes his head good-naturedly. Then with his face resting on his fist, he winks at me. “Hi, champ. Sorry, got caught up. What’s for lunch? I’m starving.”

*****

“Most of the menu’s pasta?”

“The owner’s German, but the manager’s a master of Italian cuisine. My little girl often complimented their assistant cook, the waitress with the orange hair there. Much better than our maid.” 

“You’ve been staring at your menu for a while, dear lady. Are you having trouble deciding?”

“Japanese. . . curry? What a notion.”

“Oh yes ma'am. The manager hails from Japan. Apparently, they used to do a curry of the month, here. Turned out to be so popular, curry connoisseurs far and wide made the pilgrimage to this very establishment.” 

“Like the annual Tamales festival up north.”

“What about you champ, see anything you like? I’m paying.” 

“Wow, thanks. Just surprised they have a carrot salad. Tolosa salads are usually just a garden, Caesar, or cobb.”

“You heard Lorenz, champ. You can’t settle for salad. Master Italian chef, famous curry. Need more meat on your bones, anyway.” 

“Well, what about Mary?” 

“Hmph, I think she’s quite taken with the curry, ma’am?”

“Japanese? Curry?” 

“What about you two?” 

“Steak to go with this red. I’ve survived this long, may as well enjoy it.” 

“They don’t have a good Sangiovese here? Shame, Laurent. Why would you move here in the first place?” 

“You learn to drink Cabernet. Californians and their Cabernet. Dear lady, I noticed you haven’t ordered a beverage?” 

“Irish. Looks poorly on me as well.” 

“Lorenz, how big are the pizzas?”

“Definitely enough to fill a person and have some left over to take home for dinner.”

“Hello everyone, have you decided on what you want?” 

“Ladies first.” 

“Could I get the Salsiccia pizza?” 

“Of course. And you, ma’am?” 

“Japanese. . . curry! Please.” 

“The lunch special 8 oz Sirloin, for me. And Lorenz?” 

“Tell Hibiki to make me Harriet’s usual. Let’s see how my little girl’s tastes have changed. Thanks, Chikagi.” 

Oh, Chika is short for Chikagi.

*****

When lunch arrived, Mary couldn’t stop complimenting the innovation of ‘oriental fusion’ in the form of a Japanese curry with white rice. Laurent tore into his steak and sipped his wine with a somewhat dissatisfied look on his face. Lorenz. . . the waitress came out with an omelet on top of fried rice. He was grimly happy? He even said ‘guess she’s still my little girl.’ Creepy.

And me and my pizza. Was it as good as Guiseppe’s or is Giuseppe's really just overpriced and overrated Americanized Italian food with fancy Italian names to make it seem less American? That’s what I hoped to find out, but I think people who criticize cuisine are exaggerating the difference. Okay, Dominos vs. this pizza, sure there’s a difference. But at a certain point, things taste just as good? It’s all kind of just food. 

“How’s your pizza?” Laurent asks with his knife digging into the meat. 

“Good as Giuseppe's.”

Laurent bobs his head ambivalently. 

“Mary, how’s the. . .” but her plate was already cleared. 

“While we’re digesting, I’d love to hear how you and Mr. . . . .” She shoots Laurent a small smile. “Why, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”

“Of course, dear lady, of course. Last time I believe you were relatively incapacitated. No need for formality, call me Laurent. Magi names are too long and nonsensical. Even applying for a credit card is hurdle after hurdle.” 

“My pleasure, Laurent. Mary. Don’t put much stock in last names either. Lorenz was regaling us ‘bout his exploits through the years but never touched on how a man of the cloth came in contact with a magician.” 

Lorenz raises an eyebrow at that last word as he sips the last of his wine, white. Laurent takes his time wiping his mouth before leaving the napkin on his plate. 

“You are bold, dear lady, participating in the Holy Grail War without hiding your name. I would say, even honorable. On the other matter, I’m not too comfortable with telling that story,” he looks at Lorenz. “A dear friend shouldn’t tarnish the honor of another.”

Laurent’s pretty cool. Real. In fact, all the mages I’ve met are some version of this. They don’t hide behind memes. They say what they mean without being scared of who they are. 

“Why I believe it was Lorenz who said you should be the one to tell us, so please go on right ahead,” Mary smiles. 

Lorenz apologizes with an amused frown, “The girls already know I was not the most pious of priests.” 

Laurent sighs, defeated. “Lorenz’s research involved a collaboration with the Frise family, a magus family that I was also entangled with. Mutual friends often have a way of meeting. We kept in touch after he adopted their daughter. I helped out with her magical education and when the Pralalala forced Lorenz to go underground I offered what meager assistance I could at the time.”

“Couldn’t have been meager assistance if he came all the way to a warzone to tell us about the Church.” Mary protests. 

“Can’t find a magus humbler than Laurent. Saved my life, this man has.” Lorenz good-naturedly slaps Laurent on the back. Laurent rolls his eyes. “But, no ma’am. I arrived a few days ago. The Cardinal commissioned me to help Father Phahn with administering this Holy Grail War. It was a good excuse to come to Ahnenerbe and see some old friends.” 

Wait, where have I heard. . . 

“A Cardinal? Ph— I mean Father Phahn said it was a Cardinal who started this Grail War. Wait, do you know Father Phahn?” 

“No, Nadine; that Cardinal has long since passed.” 

“Laurent’s right. When the Tolosa Grail was brought to the Church’s attention, a well-known Cardinal established a commission with the bishop who found the Grail as his co-chair.”

Right, Phahn talked about this last night. The bishop recently died and a member of his faction became Saber’s Master. So that would mean the Cardinal who commissioned Lorenz, commissioned Father Phahn, is the one handling this Grail War all the way from the Vatican. 

“Father Phahn’s reputation precedes him. A master negotiator, by all accounts. During his time in the Eighth Sacrament, it’s rumored he provided the initial dataset that allowed the Church’s Beowulf team to create a model that forecasts the movements of relics in collectors’ hands. Truly no one better suited to moderate this war.” 

Wow Lorenz, who knew the bowl-cut priest who looks like a Walmart greeter was such a big-shot. 

“When I became a Master, I thought it was just a secret fight between seven people. I’m glad there’s so much. . . structure.” I give a reassuring nod. 

“Oh no, champ, please don’t get that impression.” Laurent shakes his head. “Being a Master is the equivalent of signing a liability waiver on your life. There might be people like Lorenz, personnel that the Church has requisitioned, as well as local and state officials, but they’re not here to protect _you_. They’re to protect everyone from you, well, you, dear lady.” 

That. . . 

“Y-Yeah! That’s what I meant.” Change the subject, change the subject, change the subject. “But yeah, like, thank you guys for coming and helping us out. Like I’m a high-school student and Mary’s a cook so there. . .” I just stop there because damn, it’s going to just get worse. 

“You feel like you’re out of your depth,” Laurent says flatly. 

“Exactly, especially after last night’s Master gathering.” 

“Then why not quit?” Lorenz asks me point-blank. Laurent looks at him. “You might die.” 

I nod, “Mary. . .”

“I want to clear my name,” Mary says clearly. 

“And I want to help her,” I say as clearly as I can. 

Lorenz looks at us for a long second before sliding a screen protector across the table. 

“You’ll want to peel off the cover and put it over your Command Spell.” 

This is my mom’s waxing strips-level sticky.

“Even if this hides magical energy, you can still see. . . Oh.” 

All visible traces of my Command Spell disappear.

“As expected of Church cybernetics,” Laurent raises an eyebrow. “Truly cutting-edge technology. Weren’t there rumors of an Executor whose body was about seventy percent modified with consecrated weaponry?” 

“Like Robocop in robes. Is Father Phahn a cyborg?” And more importantly what the fuck did I just put on my hand.

“Sancraid Phahn isn’t an Executor. Like Laurent said, the Church has some agents with some ‘improvements’ to better serve the Lord. In order to create and maintain these prostheses, the Church has been required to create a low-cost, fast-acting skin replacement. Let’s say one of our agents wants to go to a public sauna on their day off or the covering of their prosthesis is damaged during battle. Normally, the agents use an aerosol but these are easier for small, instant applications.” 

“What happens when I use a Command Spell?” 

He takes a small plastic ziplock of those screen protectors out from his jacket pocket and drops them on my side of the tables.

“Reapply. These should last you until the end of the Grail War.” 

“Thank you, Lorenz.”

“No need. Thank this man.” He points his thumb at Laurent. 

“Thanks. . . for everything.” I’m surprised how much I mean it. 

That night the vampire almost killed me, Laurent let me into his car with such understanding eyes, not the sympathetic way my father used to look at me when I had a bad day at school or my mother was being particularly melodramatic, but the encouraging kind. Wanting to let me know that I can trust him. That he’ll do whatever he can because he _wants_ to help me. 

“Now to business. A vampire recently attacked you, correct?” Lorenz becomes a little more serious. 

“Yes. Last I heard, the vampire’s a Master and the Church called in a specialist. But if the vampire is a Master, the neutral Church shouldn’t have errr jurisdiction?” 

“No,” says Laurent, “The overseer should be neutral. But the entire Church is not the overseer. The Church has a duty to slay Dead Apostles. They will not shirk their responsibility.” 

Lorenz nods. 

“If the vampire is a Master, he would have a Servant. Can this specialist stand-up to both a Master and Servant?” 

“'Fraid not.” Lorenz admits. “The Church would break the overseer’s neutrality and deploy Rider if there’s a Dead Apostle after the Grail. This Grail especially.” 

Because this Grail was embezzled from the Church’s very own treasury. That’s what Phahn said last night. The bowl-cut priest has it hard. He needs to fight off Saber and now this vampire’s Servant. 

“A vampire would want to be impervious to sunlight, right? That’s a vampire’s greatest weakness.” 

Or a Van Helsing.

“Assuming there is a Dead Apostle as a Master, champ, their objective was to become a Dead Apostle. After that, there’s nothing left. In the ecstasy of their heresy, they failed to realize everything they valued would eventually become trite and meaningless.”

“For the vampire this is just a game?” Mary says. “Playing the role of a Master so they can feel something. Ridiculous.” 

You tell him, Mary. 

“Is there anything that I can do if the vampire attacks me again, Lorenz? How does the Church usually fight against vampires?” 

“By appealing to their humanity, no?” Lorenz nudges Laurent who chuckles. “But really, the Church gathers information about the vampire to find a lair and undo the Curse of Restoration, usually with a religious symbol they were familiar with when they were human. In extreme cases, the Church will employ Scriptures.” 

“Scriptures, truly? Hurtling a Bible at someone seems blasphemous, bordering on ridiculous.” Mary asks. 

Lorenz shrugs, “Something of the sort.” 

I swallow my disappointment. There’s nothing I can do to forget that claw driving itself into my scalp, replacing everything I thought I knew. I’m a Master. I have eyes that see into the world. So. . . 

“Don’t be discouraged, champ. Dead Apostles are on a different level from magi. All the Masters, even Father Phahn would have a tough time.”

“I’m sure the overseer would have an easier time than the others.” Laurent butts in. 

“No question, but let me explain it to Nadine and Mary. Dead Apostles and magi, generally speaking, have the same idea of the supernatural, but Dead Apostles are vampires so naturally, they start at a higher place. Because of our purification rites, the Church is the natural enemy of the Dead Apostles who were formerly human. However, it may be difficult to admit, the Church lacks,” Laurent scoffs, “the supernatural resources magi have. It’s a rock, paper, scissors relationship.” 

Or a Mexican standoff. 

Mary looks worried. As a Servant, she was supplied with information about the existence of magecraft, but vampires and vampire hunters? The fabric undergirding the narrative she had told herself throughout her life has just been severed and restitched. But I don’t really understand why she’s so worried. Humans, not vampires, are behind climate change. 

“I understand why the Church doesn’t approve of mages or vampires, but why do Dead Apostles not get along with mages?” 

“Good question, champ. Yes Lorenz, why not, they’re both heretics are they not?” This time it's Laurent nudging Lorenz. 

“The first rule of magi is to conceal magecraft. Dead Apostles are supernatural beings preoccupied with their own games. They conceal themselves out of fear of the Church and magi, if at all. To summarize, the Dead Apostles fight to continue existing, the magi fight to be left alone with their research, and the Church fight to correct the world.” 

So they can continue to Live in their undeath. 

So they can continue to search for the Truth. 

So they can continue to be Right. 

Byron, why is this all bullshit? 

“So, then what about this is a mystery?” I ask. 

Mary looks at me, confused. 

“What’s a mystery?” Laurent asks.

“Mystery is.” Lorenz responds, but upon seeing Laurent’s confused face, “Heresy.” 

“There’s nothing mysterious about what’s heresy,” Laurent responds.

“No, she means mystical.” Lorenz puts his hand up. 

“Mystical things are certainly mysterious and heretical,” Mary says. 

“There’s a difference in something being mystical versus mysterious?” I ask. 

“What a mystifying conversation.” Laurent gives up. 

“A real mystery.” Mary piques. 

“Mystère,” says Lorenz exasperated. “She’s asking about mystère.” 

Right, I remember Rich saying the word. 

“Of course, mystère. Champ, do you know where the word mystery comes from?” 

Truthfully no, but these eyes let me glimpse into the shifting clouds of context to find the answer hidden within the question.

“Mysticism, right?” 

Laurent nods, “Originating from the Grecian Mystêria, there are many known religious mysteries today: the Eleusinian mysteries, the mysteries of Isis, Disciplina Arcani.” He looks at Lorenz as he says the last one. “There was a level of secrecy to these rites. Only the initiated could learn and participate. Magecraft is based on this learning system while beings such as vampires are known as mysteries in the sense that a supernatural explanation is required for their existence.” 

“No,” Lorenz says shortly. 

We all turn to look at him slightly shocked. 

“Don’t get me wrong, Laurent is correct in the traditional sense. But mystère, mystery, heresy goes beyond the idea of pure mysticism. A mystery is self-complete, concealed, and stagnant. A body without organs. It is what it is simply because it is.”

“But mages use magecraf. . .”

Mages use magecraft. They don’t willy-nilly wish it to existence because they can like in Disney movies. It’s a process that has a beginning and a result. . . like science. But then if a mystery is self-complete, applying a process to it, adding meaning onto what it already is. . . . 

Studying mystery inherently dilutes the mystery. It doesn’t matter too much if only one person understands and utilizes the mystery. No matter how hard that person may try, the mystery yields to their interpretation because it is self-complete. On the other hand, two people is another story. With two people, you can create a world. One to establish, the other to affirm. The mystery is now reliant and therefore is no longer isolated. It is no longer stagnant. It is no longer Truth. Thus, it loses power as a pure mystery.

People too. 

When two people are in a relationship, platonic or romantic they take on each other’s attributes: identity, ideology, feelings. If Krista felt insulted enough to slap a hoe, you bet I would feel the same way. We become more than ourselves when we’re with someone. That’s why she’s so ridiculous for believing she could still be my best friend while going out with my brother. Because that mystery is no longer going to be split two ways, but three. At first, she’ll have part of me, part of herself, and part of my brother. But he’ll. . . he’s already. . . nothing. Just a popular, perfect, pretty boy. Eventually, she’ll meet more and more of his friends and become part of more and more people. As for the part of me attached to her? It’ll whittle down to nothing. The part of her attached to me. . . still everything. Ha! Relationships make us more than ourselves? No, we’re less, so much less. Self-complete, I know who I am. I know how I feel. I know my truth. No interference, no burdens, no Krista. So just like people,

“Mystery becomes diluted the more people know about it.” I test a mage’s maxim on my tongue, “But doesn’t saying that in and of itself dilute mystery?” 

If mystery is self-complete, measuring it, comparing it, categorizing it, disregards what it is. . . 

“Application, reductionism, reproduction. These are all scientific concepts. Yet, magi like Laurent use these tools on mysteries to reach the Truth. Quite the paradox.” 

Now say something smart.

“So it’s all just paper?” 

Lorenz frowns, “Where did you hear that from?” 

“Something Lord Byron said, last night. Ummm, Lord Byron is Caster’s Master. He said something like the world was a library and mystery was just paper.” 

“Laurent, do you know what that means?” Lorenz asks.

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“Well, he had been drinking. . .” 

I make an excuse so we can dismiss it as nonsense. But, if it was really nonsense, why has it stayed with me? Because you’ve always felt that way, haven’t you; people don’t see the things that you do. Because they’ve diluted themselves with each other so much, their heads are now stuck in their phones, creating paper mâché while believing it’s exactly the same as the real thing. 

They’ve lost their mystery. 

They’re lost in their mystery. 

“But that doesn’t explain what mystery actually is,” says Mary. 

Oh Mary, can’t you see? It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s nothing but everything or everything but nothing. Us. Them. This. That. The gaps between DMs that high school girls cry themselves to sleep with. The five-second timer between one episode ending and the next beginning during a Netflix binge. All the things you can’t see but I can, that’s mystery. That’s Truth. 

“You know it when you see it, dear lady, that’s what I always say,” Laurent sniggers at his own joke. “I do not mean to disrespect but you yourself dear lady are a mystery.” 

Lorenz explains, “If you were to compare yourself to a human, ma'am, there are fewer hows and whys, layers of truths, obscuring the Truth. Rather than skin and bones, protein and fat, legend itself clothes your form, and you use that very same legend as a weapon. The legend itself no matter how many skeptics debunk it cannot be rationalized away. A pure mystery is a maelstrom of the unknown, yet it Is, so at the core must be the Truth.”

The opposite has to be true though as well. How and why might obscure, but collect enough of valid truths and you’ll find the Truth within them. Is that also mystery?

“I’m impressed, Lorenz; you know so much about mystery.” Mary says. Why are you looking at Laurent? 

“That was really helpful. I think I’m starting to get the hang of this may. . . mage thing. Not like I have time to learn any practical magecraft that could help me in this Grail War, and Mary’s not the strongest Servant. What do you guys think about me allying with the Church?” Damn, that was an awkward smile, “They’ve helped me before and like you said Lorenz, the bow — Father Phahn’s pretty okay.” 

Lorenz raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’m supposed to be neutral, so that’s all Laurent.” 

“You’re going to see him, champ?” 

I nod, “When we were leaving Lord Byron’s get-together, Father Phahn said we should meet up to get our stories straight for my mom. That’s in about. . . oh fifteen minutes.” 

“Let me get the check and we can talk shop while we walk, champ.” He looks at Lorenz. “What about you, old friend?” 

“I’ll stay here for a while. Sip a nice whisky and listen to some stories about my girls. It was good to see you again. . . old friend. Good luck with the Grail War, Nadine, ma’am.” He flashes a shining smile. You couldn’t imagine there was grey in that messy brown hair.

*****

It took seven minutes for Laurent to get the waitress’s attention, receive the check, pay, and get his silver rewards credit card back. As we leave, Lorenz waves from the bar and starts peppering the orange-haired waitress with questions. He’s probably a really good dad. Unlike moms, most dads are. Even during their divorce, Krista’s dad tried being a good dad. Tried. Because no matter how sincere he was, there was always part of him that resented how much of her mother he saw in her. At least that’s what she told me while trying to hold in her tears one night. I want to be able to talk to her like that again, like Laurent, Lorenz, and I talked in this German cafe. Talking about things that really mean something and not just banter for the sake of banter like my mom does with her interns or my brother with his AP study groups.

“You’ll be safe with the overseer but how is allying with the Church going to help you win the war, champ?” 

Got me there. 

“Archer and Saber are the biggest threats.” Oh, Mary’s answering? “Archer. . . is fond of Nadine; we should have no issue bartering with him later on. Most pairs won’t attack Rider, who’s targeting Saber. They’ll wait to see who comes out on top. Under Rider’s protection, we’ll be right as rain till Rider or Saber is defeated. By that time, Archer should have thinned out the remaining Servants. It’s anyone’s guess what happens after that.” She shrugs like it’s a simple thing anyone could think of in seven minutes. 

“Say you make it to the end, dear lady. Archer and you; how do you win?” 

A few steps ahead of us, Mary abruptly stops and turns on her heel to face Laurent. Her muddy blue eyes glimmer as she looks up at the retiree slightly taller than her. 

“Doesn’t matter as long as I can clear my name,” You can’t help but feel she’s double her size. 

It’s too late for me to let go; I’ve willingly tied my fate to Mary’s. Risking my life to make her wish come true is the only way I’ll be someone else, anyone else. Not Nadine, Krista’s friend, the star quarterback’s sister, the interior designer’s daughter, but Nadine, Holy Grail War Master and Magician’s Egg whose eyes see into the depths of the world. 

All the people walking down the street with us pay no attention to yet another mopey teenager, woman past her prime who’s only fit for domestic work, and a poorly dressed average retiree. We’re part of the scenery like the mannequins behind the storefronts or everyone else on this sidewalk. But they don't know about the truths that actually matter. I — We do. 

“What about you, champ?” 

Now shrug because this is normal for you now, “Father Phahn already told my mom we’d be working for him for the next two weeks. I don’t want to be a liar.” 

He smiles sadly, “Good. Too many lies in this world, champ. So easy to get swept up in them.” 

Most of it is lying to yourself so that you can live with yourself. It’s pathetic. I couldn’t lie to myself because I wouldn’t be able to believe it. That’s why it’s hard for me. It’s hard if you can always see the core, the starting impulse, the mannequin, no matter how the wardrobe changes with the seasons. But that seems to be all people care about these days, like wanting to go on a Bachelor-esque date, or getting really into yoga because 'it’s great for my butt.’

“You, Laurent, learned that from being a magus, endlessly searching for the Truth?” Mary asks. 

“I’m retired.” 

“Your daughter is the one doing that now, right? How is she?” 

“We don’t talk much. My fault,” he smiles apologetically to me of all people. “I regret being the person I was. I’m sure you’d understand.” That last part was to Mary. 

Things you should have fought harder for, former friends you should have forgiven, times you should have truly enjoyed. These are the regrets that people usually talk about. Dumb. What truly you regret isn’t the action or inaction, but like Laurent says how you felt. 

“Part of me is relieved. When you’ve searched for the Truth as long as I have, you encounter so many lies and excuses — from others and yourself. We say we’re Truth-seeking machines but we’ve forgotten what it’s like to live that Truth. It’s sad that for all the years I’ve lived, I’ve only come to realize it now in my dotage.” 

We stop in front of a surfboard store adjoining Phahn’s Church, previously a Masonic Temple. Laurent isn’t looking at the church signboard, the fancy Church architecture, or the California Pizza Kitchen across the road. He looks longingly not at the row of surfboards on display, but his reflection in the double-glazed window. 

“I may be a heretic but if I pray hard enough, maybe the Lord will forgive even me.” 

“Is that why you haven’t offered to teach me magecraft?” Why am I hearing my internal monologue come out from my mouth? Quick, “because the mystery would decline.” 

He doesn’t look away from the glass. “There are two times a magus reveals his magecraft: when ascending to the next level or when fighting another magus.” 

I don’t need to teach you if you truly have the eyes that see into the world. Show yourself that you are worthy of understanding what it means to be a mage. After all, this Holy Grail War is nothing but a mage fight, isn’t it? 

That must be what his slightly hunched over back burdened with layers upon layers of jackets tells me.


	27. 25/ Terror ExeMPLAR

**25/ Terror ExeMPLAR**

On the Mission’s stone steps overlooking the plaza, bustling with almost-lunchtime foot traffic, I scratch my head after a confusing phone call. The plan was to beg Father Phahn for any information he had about the Dead Apostle but I had no way of contacting him. Moreover, the church acting as the new Holy Grail War operations headquarters will be absent of detectable bounded fields or wards. The overseer’s base of operations is neutral ground that shelters retired Masters. The Mission? No wards outside, but we do have holy defenses around our relics and the altar. 

I called Tolosa’s Parks and Rec department. We’ve been working together for years and this has nothing to do with the Holy Grail War — but I got the bureaucratic run-around anyway. Thank you for your time, best of luck, now to try the mayor’s office. Her personal assistant asked if I had an appointment and when I tried to explain who I was, well, she told me her boss told her to tell anyone from the Mission it was out of our hands. That hurt a little less than the response from Parks and Rec. 

The former mayor was more than happy to work with the Mission; her office offered a high level of administrative assistance and impartial oversight for the project. There was tension, of course. Event management is never smooth sailing, but the Church and the city had a mutual goal — minimize damage. Two years ago, she lost her bid for reelection and we introduced the Grail War to the current mayor. Don’t get me wrong, the new mayor is nice. Everyone says so. But when your platform is local climate change response reform and community inclusivity, yet you end up unwittingly inheriting the planning committees for a Church-run secret war fought by magi using heroes drawn from the well of human culture, well. . . . We went into that meeting with many brightly colored charts. Cherry congratulated the new mayor, complimented the flower threaded in her hair, and then told her point-blank there was the equivalent to a nuclear bomb underneath the city and she could either let it explode or let us handle it. We knew we lost her when she was more interested in Cherry’s arborist background than how prompt channels of communication between the ground team, Tolosa airport, and the nearby military base was paramount, especially if the Caster Servant was a summoner. Hard not to be in denial, coming off the high of winning a mayoral election. At the end, she decided her office would have minimal involvement in the Grail War and delegated decision-making roles to the senior career bureaucrats we had been dealing with before. Cherry smiled when we got the news. Had that been the goal all along? She did look at me funny. The mayor, not Cherry; like she wanted to protest my involvement with all her heart. A teenager shouldn’t be involved in the planning of this — this deathmatch! Something like that. But she didn’t say anything. I wonder why. 

With my Hail Mary having failed, I called Mr. Kars’ personal number. He said that I shouldn’t have called him and couldn’t help me before tapping the back of his phone with his fingernail twice. Tump. Tump. Right, so Father Phahn tapped the line. I was trying to figure out how to send a coded message when,

“When this is all over, we should go surfing, again at Isla Vista. We’ll grab a slice afterwards, buddy.” 

But Mr. Kars doesn’t surf and I’ve tried surfing once but Mr. Kars doesn’t know that, so, “That sounds great, good luck with everything.”

Hang up. Google maps. A church that’s close to a surf shop and a pizza place. Two hits. First, there’s a Central Coast surf shop franchise next to Giuseppe's. The church closest to that is the Mission. There’s a Seventh Day Adventist church opposite to a California Pizza Kitchen and right next to the local surf shop. That’s when I unconsciously scratched my head. Not because the church used to be a Masonic lodge, but why did the Church establish the new overseer’s headquarters five minutes away from the Mission?

*****

You can’t find this soft a carpet in a California Mission. The atmosphere inside of them engulfs you, sparks shooting up your spine, forcing your back to straighten because you’re entering a consecrated domain filled with tradition. That’s why I enter the date and occasion in the logbook every time I ring the bells. When that logbook is filled, I shelve it with the other logbooks, another link in the unbroken chain of succession. But this church replaces tradition with encouraging fluorescent posted notes, entries to the Bible coloring competition taped on the walls, and checkered tablecloths on the snack table.

“Excuse me!” I call out. 

Father Phahn appears from the sacristy in his casual robes. His eyes widen at the sight of me before mouthing something to his left. 

“Chris, such a pleasant surprise. Sit, sit.” He motions to the front row of pews. “I ought to be surprised that you found us, but experience tells me I shouldn’t. This out-of-the-box problem solving is exactly what we expect from our Executor candidates.” 

Ignoring the elephant in the room? Fine, let’s dance, Father Phahn. 

“You’re too kind, Father. But my present troubles would shame the Ashura’s Pit. I know the Grail War has tied your hands; however, what was said during our last meeting left quite the impression. In truth, I’ve spent the last few days attempting to investigate the Dead Apostle.” 

His second nod peters into a five-second silence. “I want to be honest with you, Chris. I know this restructuring led to my taking of your position. You have all the right in the world to resent me.”

“Of course not, Father. This was the will of the Church—” 

His pale, thin raised hand stops any protest that could have come out from my mouth. “And you were close to him weren’t you. The legendary bishop, Dilo. This must be a difficult time for you.” I — no, we weren’t that close. He said some unimportant things and then left me with the old man. “To let you know I have the utmost respect for you, your position, and the Mission, I want to share our Dead Apostle strategy with you. We’ve funneled our approach into two buckets, holistically and on a granular level. Best practices of course. Big picture, we’ve mapped where the Dead Apostle has been, but because of the Grail War, our assets haven’t been able to interview stakeholders. Forgive the pun.” 

Really, the Church has nothing? 

What did Sunao-sensei say on the topic again? Heyo you Executors-in-training yada yada yada. Ain’t that difficult, if there’s a credible vampire threat the local priest will call you, okay maggots? Skip, skip, skip. Maggots, if you’re called to an isolated community, hear a rumor about an individual that is an extension of something human, know several witnesses to that rumor, and the place is on the Church’s list of possible danger zones, that ain’t any old Dead Apostle, that’s — Nope. Come on brain, how many times have you watched those online lectures, searing every word beyond the grey folds and into the neurons. Maggots, we don’t look for Dead Apostles, those motherfuckers are too hard to find. We look for The Dead. If there’s Dead, there’s a Dead Apostle close by. But what if the Dead Apostle is one of those weirdos that doesn’t create Dead? How do you know there’s really a Dead Apostle? 

“Those affected, Father?” 

He doesn’t need to know the first thing I did was scope out the Men’s Colony because I didn’t have access to the coroner's reports. 

“Hmm, impressive question. Typical cause of death. Our investigators haven’t been able to determine why the Men’s Colony, in particular, was attacked.” 

The California Men’s Colony is a state-run prison on the outskirts of Tolosa almost ironically known as the ‘Country Club.’ Covering three hundred and fifty-six acres and consisting of minimum security to medium-security facilities, it's the perfect Dead Apostle weekend getaway: play pretend prisoner, participate in low-stakes factional gang fights, instigate petty civil upheaval in the form of a prison riot, all the while knowing you could escape any minute and no one would be able to do a thing about it. Prisons: Dead Apostle theme parks. Why else do you think the DOJ has such a prolific and longstanding chaplain program? 

“What do you think is their motive, Father?” 

He creases his eyebrows while looking at me, “Hmmm, fascinating question. The obvious would be the Holy Grail. A copycat, no doubt?” 

One of the Masters in Snowfield was an old Dead Apostle known as the Six-Hearted Revolver whose goal was something boring like ‘wake up the Fifth Dead Apostle Ancestor.’ Probably his parent vampire. According to the Snowfield overseer’s report, Jester was exterminated. I guess bloodsuckers and heretics really are the same. There’s no better way of advertising a Grail War than telling them one of their elites died participating. 

“Father. . . who was the Master that the Dead Apostle attacked?”

“My, my, you honestly shouldn’t sell yourself short. To know even that? How resourceful. That would have been Assassin’s Master.”

When Archer told me the Dead Apostle attacked a Master-Servant pair, something didn’t make sense. 

“Nothing but a lucky coincidence. But escaping from an Assassin — It’s at least a Class Five.” 

“No, Chris,” Father Phahn clears his throat. “That vampire defeated Assassin and severely wounded Berserker.” 

A girl crying in the middle of the football field as a cook stands over her.

A woman in a crimson military uniform emerged relatively unscathed from a barrage of Archer’s arrows.

This Dead Apostle fought evenly with Servants? That’s on the level of an Ancestor. 

Breathe. This is what the old man was talking about this morning and you — trying to do this alone has got you nowhere. You know what you have to do, so open your mouth and— 

—A boundary line filled with familiar magical energy knits itself around the perimeter of the church. Unable to contain themselves, the church doors swing open for two women. 

Jeans don’t suit the one in front, but she always insists on wearing them on workdays. When her boyfriend’s over she only wears flowing dresses or long skirts. Her pursed lips and lowered eyes complete the face she has when she’s done all she can and has no choice but to rev that chainsaw and put a sick tree out of its misery. All that determination crumbles when she sees me. 

“Chris?” 

“Matou.” 

Rider materializes on the other side of the aisle with a single world, “Saber.”

“Cherry —” 

“Phahn!”

Father Phahn is the first to recover from the shock, getting up from his seat and proclaiming, “Dear Master, were you perhaps seeking sanctuary from the Grail’s trials?” 

What a bad joke. Surrendering Masters aren’t supposed to form bounded fields around neutral ground then stride in with that look on their face and a Servant close behind. No, the real reason why Cherry came here today was, 

“The things you said last night,” she tries to start. 

“Were merely the truth. She’s behind you, no? Your Servant.” 

A smoldering shadow, Saber doesn’t make any indication of having heard her name. 

“Dilo left this city to me. To us. If I need to summon a Servant to protect his wishes, then —” 

“Admirable, but Bishop Dilo has passed away. Furthermore, while the late Bishop was a singular voice in the committee, he was just that, a _singular_ voice,” Father Phahn licks his lips. “You aren’t even a citizen of this country. You are a consultant, not a member of the Church. In fact, was not your bloodsucker grandfather an enemy of the Church?”

“Don’t bring my family into this,” Cherry shoots back without flinching.

“The Holy Grail found it fit to bestow upon you a Command Spell, the rank of Master. As overseer I shall afford you the respect that position grants you, but nothing more. Therefore, did you come to surrender?” 

Head high and violet eyes trained directly into Father Phahn’s almost serpentine pair, “No, I came to declare war.” 

Then, “Chris, we’re leaving.” She turns on her heel and begins to walk away. 

I don’t move. I could stay, I could really stay. Because I should hate Dead Apostles. They killed my parents. I would do anything to gather more information to exterminate the one threatening this town. Nothing else matters if the joints still move, the mechanism rotates, thus the boy continues to kill Dead Apostles. Throw away family. Throw away comfort. Throw away love. Because all of us, no matter who we are, are merely foam. The individual pops but the overall shape remains the same. I tell myself this. I say it so that I don’t forget.

But what did you forget? 

What else did you promise when Dilo visited you that day? 

What does that forsaken boy who died in your place want and what can you do for him? You owe him enough to keep up the illusion of everyday life; so his existence can be continuously reaffirmed in each action you take, each word you speak, each expression you make. Like that the past isn’t forgotten — it bubbles up until it reaches the horizon that is the present. 

Cherry stops and looks back. Her brows furrow slightly and she opens and closes her mouth once before being able to say, “Chris,” with a slight quiver in her voice. 

I tell myself the continuation of the boy’s story. How he was adopted into a loving household and became part of a community. He never forgot the Dead Apostle that killed his family, but that didn’t stop him from living a blessed, everyday life. He found something to protect, because everyone else had something to protect. He worked hard, because everyone else worked hard. He wanted things, because everyone else wanted things. And now, he has the chance to throw away the dearest connection he’s made to obtain more information about a Dead Apostle. 

There’s an obvious choice and a right choice. 

That boy who drowned in that stream of bubbles will always choose the — 

I stand up, bow my head at Father Phahn, wordlessly thanking him for all the information and leave the church with Cherry.

*****

“Have you eaten yet? I left something in the fridge for you.” Cherry looks over her shoulder at me before starting to fuss, “You shouldn’t be up with that injury.”

“Father Kelsey didn’t say anything.” I check the time on my phone. The lunch rush should be over by now. The only people left in the downtown eateries are college students or retirees. “Rare for you to come downtown on your lunch break.” 

She offers her standard crooked smile, “After settling business with Phahn, I wanted to go back to the Mission and check up on you. It’d also give me a chance to show Saber the town.” 

Do you know the meme of that guy walking with his girlfriend but the guy is staring at another girl? That’s a meme because the sentiment is relatable, not because it happens in real life. Behind us is Saber with her black frilly shirt tucked into a long proper skirt (one of Cherry’s?). The top half of the shirt is gauzy but the black never betrays a hint of skin, only the suggestion of milky shoulders underneath. Waving back and forth as she walks is a single long braid of hair as blue as the Pismo shallows. Her serene eyes intermittently switch between a smolder and a glazed look. Every woman who walks by can only dismiss her as a doll with a soundless sniff. Every man who walks by avers with his eyes, what a doll, like it’s 1920. We continue down the street, parting the sea of pedestrians. They subconsciously know that this being walking beside them isn’t human, but the mind is too well developed. To meet the world that recompiled itself to suit us halfway, the brain filters all information. The permeate? The extraneous, the improbable, the scenery. The rules of our modern world state exceptionalism is the peak of mundane; famous, super-rich, or a supermodel. Wow, they sure look different in real life. Man is the god of man; even when she’s actually a degenerated divinity summoned as a Ghost Liner. 

We stop at a thoroughfare as Cherry points to a square green sign, “I heard this place is good.”

“Any reason in particular?”

“They’re farm-to-table, Chris. Small businesses remind me of home.”

*****

After seating us, the waiter leaves to get some water. Cherry skims the menu, immediately picking out the kale chips as appetizers for us to share. She’s going to have the rainbow trout because she’s still trying to go keto. Except for rice; Japanese people have to eat rice. In an octave higher than her normal voice, she assures us that we can take as much from her plate as we want.

I already know I want the grilled mushrooms and beef meatloaf. Extra horseradish on the potatoes and well, everything thank you. If you add enough horseradish, you pretty much get wasabi. 

The problem is Saber. She kept saying that she wanted something hot; something to warm her up. Maybe a hot grilled chicken and smoked bacon sandwich? Saber’s too regal for a sandwich, Cherry. Then do you think she’d like the gumbo? She’s a Servant, she really doesn’t need to eat. Cherry raises her eyebrows at me because yes, she’s right, I’m mistreating a guest. I’m sure she’d like gumbo. 

The waiter comes back with our waters. After he puts them on the table, he pulls out a notepad. Cherry asks about the gumbo. Warms the soul. Right answer. She quickly makes the orders and he says he’ll be right out with our kale chips. They’re keto, she says, almost to herself.

As we wait for the kale chips, I ask Cherry about last night. I don’t remember Berserker’s Master saving me, but I should thank her for driving me back to the Mission when I get the chance. If I was reading the register of Cherry’s voice correctly, she and Cherry might have hit it off? That isn’t surprising though. People usually think of Cherry as slightly gloomy when they first see her, then she hits them with her sometimes overly cheerful personality. The resulting guilt cements their fondness for her. At least, that’s what Father Kelsey told me one night when he got kind of wasted on G&T. I’ve never asked her boyfriend though.

Cherry apologizes and leaves to use the restroom. She does that a lot, apologize. This time I think it’s because I have to ensure Saber doesn’t do anything too Mad Enhancement-y in this cafe. 

Saber’s expression is so slack that I can’t help but think she’s looking past everything — like a life-sized doll placed in an art installation except for her smolder. You can practically hear tinder crackling. That’s why she’s beautiful. Not a garish beauty or anything divine, although her level of divinity is pretty much no longer possible in our era. No matter how soft-spoken she might be, she burns with life that none of her features allow for. Too delicate, too frail, a human-shaped china doll to be placed in a little girl’s room - it should have no life. Yet, she burns. 

“Thank you for saving me, last night.” It’s important to thank those who help you, more so those who save you, even if they are more mystery than person. 

She doesn’t blink or look in my direction. “We’re different. . . How problematic.” 

“Yes, you’re a Servant and I’m a person.” Try not to think about what her use of ‘problematic.’ 

“Sorry, no.” She looks through my eyes. “Different. You may be flame but you are unable to burn anything. Like Rider.” I’m not sure what the last part meant. “Fire without heat.” 

For a moment, the cafe is a grand feasting hall. There’s blood everywhere and atop of a great burial pyre is a mad queen who wants to feel again. 

“Getting along?” Cherry’s voice extinguishes all the flames, bringing me back to the eatery that calls itself a cafe.

I swallow, about to answer but the waiter comes back with kale chips. They’re seasoned with authentic sea salt and a squeeze of lemon. I’m not sure you could advertise these as kale chips; there’s parmesan baked onto each leaf, delivering a double crunch when you bite in. Typical Tolosa food, slathering everything with cheese. Cherry looked guilty after taking two of the biggest intact leaves. She asks Saber what she thinks. 

“Seaweed cooked in lard. . .” she says quietly. 

“Why did you summ—” I almost break the facade, but I’m able to stop myself. Cherry is my legal guardian and my magecraft teacher. Her being a Master has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with me because I’m hunting a Dead Apostle. 

The entrees arrive, but before I’m allowed to say grace, Cherry forces me to move closer to Saber so she can take a picture of a silent Saber with eyes downturned and me with the smile I use for pictures. 

Food’s good; they didn’t skimp on the horseradish so I don’t need to whip out any of the wasabi packets I have in my jacket pocket. When I’m close to finished, Cherry abruptly tells me, “Chris, you can’t keep hunting that Dead Apostle, alone.” 

I put down my fork. “Pardon?” 

“We talked about this yesterday, but you ignored me and went off on your own. Do you know how worried I was?” She doesn’t look at me while saying it, just puts one of the few remaining pieces of fish in her mouth. 

“I don’t know why. Saber was looking after me.” 

She offers me a glazed-over half-smile before going back to sipping her gumbo. 

Cherry crosses her arms on the table. A Servant almost killed you, her demure but strict posture seems to say. Instead of voicing the obvious, she takes a deep breath, “I accept that you’re a member of the Church, but alone in the midst of a Holy Grail War? Don’t you think that’s a little, irresponsible?”

“Yes.” 

Yes, but don’t you think it’s a little irresponsible summoning a Servant to participate in the Holy Grail War when we had been preparing to oversee this very War. Now all the Masters see you as a traitor to the Church, delegitimizing our replacement overseer as well as the government agencies that helped us prepare, putting yourself and possibly the entire Mission at risk? 

But I don’t say this because I have nothing to do with the Holy Grail War. 

She sighs with her nose then massages her temples, “Sorry. You deserve to know why I’m. . . You’re a good kid, Chris.”

“Is it the trees?” 

She blinks twice, “What makes you think it’s the trees?” 

I side-eye Saber eyeing the whole shrimp on her spoon stranded on an island of rice, drowning in Americanized creole soup. 

“The trees at the Grail summoning locations are mostly burned down. It wasn’t hard to make the connection when I finally saw Saber fight. Magical Energy Burst (Flame): A+. And Lancer, he’s the one creating those trees, isn’t he?” 

“Yes. . . ” she says with a small crooked smile while nodding. “I managed to summon Saber on Cerro Huerta’s leyline before Lancer noticed my presence. If you saw the aftermath you should know the danger.” 

Something horrifying comes to mind. 

“You stole one of the Mission’s relics?” 

“Of course not, Chris. It’s better without one, anyway.” 

Cherry, I know you’re a former Master but that’s insane. You know as well as I do, no, even better than I do that the only two classes you can control for during a compatibility summon are Assassin and Berserker. For any other class, you’re YOLO rolling the gatcha with no guarantee or pity. That’s almost like your goal wasn’t to fight in the Grail War but just to summon a Servant. 

“If you needed a Servant, couldn’t you have asked Rider?”

Rider is Cherry’s former Servant. Due to ‘extenuating circumstances’ during the final Fuyuki Holy Grail War that I have no knowledge about and Rider’s Independent Action skill, she didn’t need to return to the Throne. I’ve never met Rider in person, but I have said ‘hi’ when they Facetime. 

Cherry shakes her head, “I couldn’t do that to her. Not after the Eulyphis procession.” 

There’s a story there I haven’t heard. 

“Are you really okay, supplying magical energy to two Servants? One who isn’t being supported by a Grail.”

Cherry watches Saber finishing her soup. I can’t imagine what she’s thinking. I usually can but this is a Master who fought in a Holy Grail War and survived, not my magecraft teacher. 

“Saber does take quite a bit of magical energy. I’ll be fine. Fuyuki’s ley lines should be enough to maintain Rider until this war ends and Sen—Shirou doesn’t need much,” 

“Have you told them? Your family.” I ask quietly. 

“Chris. . . you. . . t-the Mission is the family I should be worrying about.” 

She didn’t answer the question. 

The waiter comes to take our plates. Emotionlessly, Saber dabs the edge of her mouth with her paper napkin and thanks the waiter for the meal. I think that melted his heart. Anyway, I thank Cherry for the food as she asks me to calculate the tip. Americans, she mutters like always. 

“I should be going back to work. I’ll take you back to the Mission. You need to rest.” She urges me as we step off the patio.

“Farmer’s tonight. Kayla said she’d meet me at Ahnenerbe. I’m going to check the bounded field on Higuera first.” 

“Okay,” she nods to herself for a moment before adding, “Nothing strenuous. Meet me in front of the foundation at nine.” She pulls out a purse that belongs in a Daiso and hands me a twenty instead of context. “And don’t you dare break that nice girl’s heart. Treat her like a princess. Stop making that face.”


	28. 26/ Farmer’s (Too Nice For a Jacket)

**26/ Farmer’s (Too Nice For a Jacket)**

Maintenance on the bounded field extending from the local Sephora all the way down the road to a local deli/bottle store took the better part of three hours. Equivalent exchange, am I right? Typically, the circumference of a bounded field delineates a natural boundary: a forest, a house, a body. Physical separations give the traveler the impression they might be wandering from a known world into an unknown. 

If none of these are present, magi are known to use certain psychological tricks in architecture or cunning city planning to carve out an isolated area beforehand. That doesn’t work when you’re trying to detect overly hostile intentions mixed with magical energy threatening farmer’s market shoppers on an already built street. Cherry ingeniously carved a series of sigils to extend the range of a single bounded field. She wouldn’t explain the mystery, but each sigil is made of seven strokes. It might be ridiculous, but I think they look Mycenaean. The Matou originated from Russia, specifically Kiev before it was Ukranian. 

To ensure some Master doesn’t go around washing out the sigils with their magical energy, Cherry locked them within imaginary number space pockets fixed to the relative space they occupy. We might not be overseeing the Grail War, but the Mission still has control over our custom-built magical infrastructure. My magical energy unlocks the pockets, and I gave Mr. Kars a gemstone filled with my magical energy so he could activate the bounded field if I wasn’t present. We first tested the system a month ago at the weekly Farmer’s Market and have been fine-tuning exactly what ‘hostile’ meant since. 

Checking the sigils and refilling them doesn’t take too long; it’s making sure the Executors that Father Phahn brought in haven’t tried constructing their own bounded fields on top of ours. Never know what happens when magecraft mixes. 

That must be why Cherry hasn’t tried taking down those trees. My best guess? They’re catalysts for a defined domain to activate a territory-based Noble Phantasm, possibly an otherworld bounded field equivalent to the ones elementals and Dead Apostles construct. That would mean Lancer was a magus or at least has enough knowledge to perform high-thaumaturgy. Yeah, that’s why I said it was my best _guess_. Cherry would have a better idea since her element is imaginary numbers. But I feel like the trees are hollow to the point of「」. Trees of emptiness? Internally shrugging to some crazy vernacular no one would even think of using, I enter Ahnenerbe.

*****

“Hi Manager; the usual, please,” I offhandedly say as I pull myself onto a bar stool.

Lowering a pair of shades in a dimly lit cafe is always striking. “House roast, Black, Japanese Iced on your tab?” 

“Slightly offended you needed to ask.”

We both politely laugh. Repeating the same little comedy routine is what it means to be regular at a cafe. That and having a tab. 

“Farmer’s tonight.” I tell him as he puts the beans in the grinder. “Kayla’s going to meet me here in a bit. Oh, Kayla’s my girlfriend; I think you’ve met her before.” 

He smiles to humor a regular while blooming the coffee on top of a cup half-filled with ice. Watching makes me uneasy. It’s not butterflies. I’ve been going to Farmer’s with Kayla since the first semester. How audacious to continue holding a farmer’s market during not only a Holy Grail War but with a Dead Apostle at large. Yes, I know the worst way to conceal mystery is to disturb routine. Surely, everyone in town can feel the tension in the air, but they choose to ignore it — to keep the hope that tomorrow will be better than today alive in their hearts. How resilient. No doubt the Church destroying the supernatural will make the world a better place. 

I thank the Manager as he settles the glass on a square napkin in front of me. Freshly brewed, exactly one calorie for every three-point-five fluid ounces of beverage (give or take the density). Over ninety-nine percent of coffee is water. It has no nutritional benefits yet — I take a sip and let the aroma wash over me. The infinite branching products originating from a single ubiquitous chemical reaction in the pursuit of pure hedonism results in a drink that’s become a lifestyle.「」in a tree? Don’t make me laugh. If the magi idea of「」has any validity, it exists in every cup of coffee. 

I do my best to swallow. I don’t like coffee, it tastes like dirt and the caffeine does nothing for me. But drinking it is comforting because it demonstrates — well, I’m not sure what it demonstrates but you don’t order a Coke at a cafe like Ahnenerbe. 

“How is it?” the Manager asks. 

Feigning depth, I try to snatch at whatever descriptor comes to mind, “Very smooth. Not acidic at all. A deep flavor, very deep. Maybe hints of grass and malt.” 

He scoffs a little. “Enjoy the coffee, Chris. If you have some time, there’s someone in the kitchen who would like to meet you.” 

“No problem.” I reflexively look at my phone after I say the words, “Yeah, I got a while.” 

He walks into the back room. 

I wonder if it’s Seven, the hooved girl the cafe sometimes babysits. The special salad they make for her is finally on the menu. What’s that feeling of deja vu? She hasn’t been to the cafe for three weeks, so why does it feel like I saw her this morning? A cat hell and my locker too? 

The stray thoughts are swung out of my head like the cafe kitchen door, revealing an almost middle-aged, darkly tanned man who still pops his collar. His black sports jacket is draped behind his left shoulder and a cerulean flip phone that’s always on the bar is squeezed to his right ear. As he walks to the bar, the somehow soft Ahnenerbe state-mandated fluorescent lights catch his showy rosary slow dancing across his collarbones. My hand almost unconsciously reaches out for my own. 

“Yes, your Seventh, can you believe it? The Church is still monitoring his movements. No, no, there’s no need for a response. I thought I’d just fill you in. . . for old times sake. Hello? Hung up. Twice in a day too.” 

He closes the flip phone and places it on the bar counter where it belongs, “Chris, the former overseer? Pleased to meet you, Lorenz, Lorenz Trendel — part of the delegation the Church sent to assist Father Phahn.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Father Trendel,” I offer him my hand but instead of taking it, he slips a business card into my palm. “Very tasteful how the raised cross-hatching texturizes the off-white. The Pastor for our Mission loves looking at other clergy member’s business cards. Do you mind if I show him?”

“Only if you call me Lorenz. Father Trendel’s my father.” He leans in and taps the line on the card which states his occupation. “I’m more of a specialist than clergy.”

The Church has many of those, “Demons, demonic fiends, demonic aberrations, demonification, demonation or true demons?”

“Have you heard of the Pralalala?” 

Everyone has. It was a heretical organization that sought to combine magecraft and sacrament to create monstrosities. The Pralalala purge was considered to be one of the modern Church’s greatest victories against a heretical organization. Those are rare considering the tepid war we’re currently fighting against the Association. 

“Are there Pralalala remnants in the region drawn to the Grail War?”

That’s the logical answer. The Grail is the holy vessel that exists in utopia. According to magi, the Holy Grail of our Lord is merely one variation of that myth. As Father Phahn said last night, this Grail War was constructed using a Grail stolen from the Church’s treasury as the core. That is to say, covering one of our Grails with the shell of the 726th Grail system to summon Heroic Spirits. So it's natural that the cultish Pralalala would be drawn to this sacrilege — Wait. What if the opposite is true?

“You’re quick. I can see why the Church cleared you to be the overseer, despite your age.” 

There’s no doubt the Church would expunge records of Pralalala involvement in constructing this Grail. A Grail War due to a Cardinal’s lapse in judgment sounds a lot better than a heretical organization we purged, abetting a Cardinal to create a Grail War. Father Kelsey would have a heart attack if he heard that. But, this is just baseless gossip between fellow off-duty Church agents, nothing more.

“Thank you for the interesting history lesson, Mr. Trendel. I’m not sure why you told me. I’m hunting the Dead Apostle threatening this town, not the Grail.” 

A gentle but toothy grin. “Every one of Phahn’s Executors is too busy with Grail War logistical or administrative work and I’m just one person. You, on the other hand, are running all over town, turning over mystery upon mystery to find this vampire, or at least that’s what I’ve been told. All I’m asking, one believer to another, is to keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear anything about the Pralalala, give me a call. You have my number. And Mr. Trendel? He’s my father.” 

“Of course. . . Lorenz,” I offer him my hand again. This time he takes it for a firm handshake. “Did someone from Parks and Rec let you know I’d be at Ahnenerbe?”

Of course, that’s not the case; he came out from the kitchen. 

“No, no, no. My daughter is friends with Chikagi and Hibiki. You might have seen her around, Harriet. Harriet Frise.” 

A pouting face under an oversized beret covering waves of gold, childishly chiding other patrons while stuffing her face with omurice.

“Oh, you’re Harriet’s father? Pleased to meet you, she’s always taking care of me.” 

She might be the worst part-time waitress here, but she has a cult following. A few years ago some Tolosa High kids would come in trying to find iconography they could pose with for clout. But a trio of teenage boys is nothing against a tall, glamorous but hateful Nordic waitress. I wasn’t there, but from what I’ve heard from other regulars, she literally kicked them out despite the Manager’s protests. I can’t help but imagine the surprise of the leader who came back the next day to apologize to her and implore her to let him do the dishes, just to find his bros also scrubbing plates in the three-compartment sink. And they kept coming back because they had assured themselves and each other that with enough proximity, she’d add them on Snapchat. Yes, that Harriet Frise. 

There’s only one thing that doesn’t make sense. I’m sure Harriet Frise is a magus.

“I better be off. It was great meeting you, Chris. You’re a promising young man who’s going to do great things for the Church.” 

I smile, tell him he’s too kind, shake his hand, and watch him leave. 

Did Cherry or Dilo know about the Pralalala connection? The last sip of cold coffee finishes coating my throat. Even if they knew, they wouldn’t tell me. My job’s to keep Masters from destroying the town. Not mine, Father Phahn’s. 

“Psst, kid. Get your ass over here.” 

A very welcome distraction. 

Pocketing the business card, I get off the barstool and slide myself into a booth to face an absolutely glowing Detective holding a lowball glass half-filled with amber liquid. There are two empty glasses beside him. 

“Where’s Curie?” 

He takes a gulp before answering, “Ain’t even her name. That troublesome woman. Kei. . . Kirara is too obvious.” He imitates a high-pitched voice. “Doesn’t she look cute, all meru-meru. After all, a comet is just —” 

He finishes the drink instead of the sentence, slamming the empty glass onto the table, breath irregular and eyes unfocused. I don’t allow myself to shrink. He’s been drunk before, usually during a particularly difficult case. Regulars know to steer clear because the next day he’ll triumphantly march into the cafe, shouting that the round’s on him only to scoff, rebuking everyone who cheered because they should earn their own money, but tonight he’ll buy the round anyway because they’re all peasants. 

No matter how unpleasant, sober or drunk, that little girl was always beside him, patiently waiting and asking obvious questions so he could tell her how stupid she sounded before answering with his signature quick-witted deductive reasoning. 

“Are —”

“The fuck was that?” 

“Pardon?” 

“That! Wha twas, that?” He wildly gestures at the barstool I stood behind while talking to Lorenz. 

“Sorry Detective, I don’t think I’m allowed to talk about that. He’s an associate.” 

He muttered something almost unintelligible underneath his breath about what sort of teenager has associates before, “One thing.” He puts up his perfectly manicured index finger. “One fucking thing. Andyou. . . Doyou know hwat your problem is? Do you. Knowhat your problem is?”

“Should I call you an Uber?”

He scoffs. It’s a harsh hacking originating from the back of his throat. “That. Exactly, fucking that. You really love sucking dick don’t you? Whoever’s in front of you, you just get down on your knees and slurp it all up. _Gobble, gobble, gobble_. Thank you, sir, can I fucking have some more?”

Excuse me? 

“Fuck. It’s the most dishgushting thing in this excuse of a cafe. You’re the best detective in Japan, even better than the Refrain duo. Shurely you can get informashion on one little dead girl’s family. Fuck.” 

The correct response would be ‘Can I do anything to help?” But there’s nothing I can do because I’m hunting a Dead Apostle and in the Detective’s eyes I’m just a teenager who frequents the same cafe that he does. 

Instead, a small smile, “I’m sorry you’re going through this.” 

That sets off a barrage of abuses that start out muttered but reach a volume loud enough that other patrons look over to see what’s happening. The waitresses try to get his attention, but without looking at them, the Detective puts his hand up silencing everyone who wasn’t talking. “Igeddit. I geddit. I’llgo. I’llgo. But you, kid, fucker. Don’t look at me like. Fuck! I had a friend once. Once. An idiot who didn’t care if trash was trying to take advantage of him. Fuck. I can’t believe I’m using _her_ words. Aiming farther for other's sake, thinking of others before yourself, and hating the fuck out of yourself more than anyone else. That’s called being broken. You, the way you suck dick, just _so_ much dick. . . like there was nothing to break in the first place.”

He wordlessly snarls at the table then stops short of crashing his fist into it. “Shit.” He glares at me with the entire cafe watching. “Fuck. Why the fuck am I even trying? Fuck.” He tries to throw his hands up in his drunken stupor but they just comically flop around. No one laughs. 

“Sir, I think you should —” 

He gets up so the waitress can’t finish her sentence and stumbles to the door muttering. “Peasants, this is why peasants, just peasants, fucking peasants, fucking kid, fucking mafia, fucking Kuruoka, fucking Curie.”

He almost collapses at the door but is able to grip the frame for support. He smashes it with his free fist. One more frustration filled “Fuck!” as he pulls himself outside, leaving us with the tense, awkward silence that grips the room when a teacher finishes shouting at a student. The shock and internal monologue of each person push all the oxygen out of the atmosphere to create a single shared moment of forever, floating in vacuum. 

But that quickly collapses into conversation. It always does. 

One waitress vehemently apologizes and asks me if there’s anything that she can get me. It’s on the house. 

The cafe isn’t at fault. The Detective was just having a bad night and I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. It happens. It happens. My girlfriend should be arriving soon so no need to worry about me. 

The waitress takes the empty glasses and leaves me to play my mobile game. While I wait for the hit Japanese arcade card game now billion-dollar, mobile hero collector Heroes of History: Grand Offensive to load, I can’t help but dismiss what the Detective said about me. The thing I like about me is that I approach every interaction sincerely. I have to because that’s what — Right, because each and every one of these experiences should be a precious bubble that adds to the foam which becomes the shape of his life. For him, the world must be beautiful. I am only here to give it meaning, to reaffirm what was. I’m doing a good job. The Detective sure has some weird friends. I better put my phone away since Kayla walked through the door. The paint on the frame is slightly chipped.

*****

The drone of hundreds becomes a dull roar as we step out of the cafe into the brightly lit street with brightly painted wooden stalls advertising exotic honey, artisanal cheeses, and local olive oils sometimes all in the same booth. If we go further up the street we’d find milk crates filled with freshly picked vegetables onto cardboard-covered plastic tables, whereas the opposite direction has no displays, only menu items written on the booth or carts. None of that should matter right now.

“Yeah, I had a pretty great time. We rolled our characters and Papiyas, he’s the character I made, is the cutest cinnamon roll, so yeah. He’s like a really nervous baby demon with a flowing ponytail. But like, ‘cept a nice kind of wild. And sticking out are baby horns and ummm can you guess what class he is?” 

“You guys aren’t playing D and D anymore, right?” 

A head shake, “Not DnD but you can still guess. Errrr, I’ll give you a clue. No wait. That would be too obvious. Ummm.” She frowns, brow crinkled as we stand on this concrete riverbank because if we dip our toe into the stream, the current of people will wash us away. 

A month or two after arriving at the school and propositioning me to start a pretend relationship, Kayla found some friends and they started playing a tabletop roleplaying game together. That’s the cool thing to do these days. Her first character, named after a fruit, was a six-four, one hundred and eighty pound, flower crown manbaby who wore his cloak backwards and played the ukulele. 

“Is he a bard who plays the ukulele?” 

Her mouth slightly opens. “Howdidyou? But yeah. I think this is the one. You know like I’ve told you before that umm I’ve always wanted to make a DnD podcast. But like everyone just makes ‘DnD’ podcasts. But Evie, she’s in the same Discord server as this guy from England who's running a Kickstarter. He was trying to fund a tabletop he was making with the help of a supercomputer with this state-of-the-art AI called Tri-Trimeow? It’s crazy, right? Like of course no one believed him and everyone thought it was just some random meme so he reached the target in a week.”

“You guys pitched in?” 

“Ummm yeah, just like as a meme, you know.” Half-way into mockingly rolling her eyes, they droop down, now fixed on her strappy shoes. “But when we got the sourcebook bundle in the mail, Evie said Iron Emblem, that’s the name, nothing to do with Fire Emblem, was going to be the next big thing in TRPG. So yeah, I think this is going to make an awesomesauce podcast because you know there are so many DnD podcasts but this is like ummm disruptive. Is that dumb?” 

My finger lightly jabs her bare upper arm to get her to stop looking down. “If you guys are having fun, there’s no way it could be dumb.” At least I think it should be true. “Aren’t you cold though? Here. . .” I start to take off my jacket. 

“Oh no!” she steps back. “No, sorry. Sorry. Thanks for the thought, but I’m good,” and immediately starts faux-flexing her biceps while gwaffing in an overly dramatic manner. “Cold? Can’t feel a thing with these guns hahahahaha.” 

Without saying a word, I zip up my jacket. 

“Sorry. That was cringe wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean cringe? I thought you couldn’t feel anything with those.” 

She won’t laugh. All I get is a nasal ‘hmph.’

“You know,” she says while shaking her head. “You know that feeling when you’re talking to someone and you can’t help but feel like they’ve already judged you. I don’t. . . get that with you. Like you kind of just accept things as they are, no questions asked. That’s ummm really cool.”

I don’t know the feeling, but thank you for the compliment. 

The hand I held out to her is a weak excuse for a non-response. If we want to really convince people we’re in a relationship we need to hold hands at these types of events. Practiced, she slips her hand into mine. The beads of sweat from her palm dampening mine and the little clockwise twist of her fingers so they fit more snuggly betray how she really feels and how I should feel. Like that, we’re swept into the current of bodies. 

“I ummm didn’t see you at school today? I thought you weren’t feeling so good but umm. . . here you are!” 

“Oh, I might have mentioned it before. There’s a private church conference in town with delegates from across the world attending. The Mission and the city have been planning it for years, and guess who’s lucky enough to be allowed to help out?” I raise my eyebrow for emphasis. 

“That’s wow. Kind of like an internship. That sounds like a great opportunity! What sort of people have you met?” 

“There was a former sailor who only had one arm. Yeah, he talked about how his former captain helped him find faith and the Lord. Oh, there’s this fashion designer, a former supermodel. She might be around here. She gave a talk about how the church can incorporate itself in the sustainable fashion movement. And ummm, there was a priest from a different part of the country, I don’t exactly remember where but he’s sort of an antique collector, like Indiana Jones, so his talk was cool. A lot of inspirational stuff, ‘cross the board.” 

As we’re walking and talking, she intermittently makes sure she’s making eye contact with me. Her eyes are almost too wide and she’s slowly nodding, signaling that she’s definitely paying attention. She wants me to know that. I think that’s why I should like her. 

The pull of Kayla’s hand that I’ve been letting myself follow stops and I almost bump into her back. Her eye’s on three booths with a variety of vegetables and fruits laid out. There are four or five browsers at each store weaving in and out, examining the bottom of a small basket of strawberries or juggling two heads of cabbage trying to grab a third. All aim to purchase the freshest product available at the best price possible without regard to what their fellow shoppers are left with. For that purpose so many esoteric methods of evaluation are created, shared, and transmitted. Everyone in that store narrates to themselves their way is the best. Those without a method? Next time. Next time I won’t scroll past that lifehack video on my timeline.

All except a woman dressed almost like one of those Victorian nurses. What did they call them again? Sparrows, starlings, no — nightingales. Without looking at any of the produce, she marches up to the shopkeeper, bows, and asks “walnut. . . cake?” 

The bewildered shopkeeper tells her to try the bakery or dessert sections down the street. She nods, thanks him, then moves to the next booth to repeat that cycle. 

White strands of hair peeking out of her headpiece and sharp red eyes, that’s an Einzbern homunculus. But even homunculi aren’t that. . . 

Kayla’s hand fidgets as she unconsciously bites her lip while staring intently at the homunculus. 

Don’t call out. I open my mouth but can’t shape the words because I want her to call out. Because those eyes almost wet from fear are smoldering — telling me that her tabletop character might be a nervous, precious, ukulele-playing bundle of anxiety but his character arc will be overcoming that carefully designed flaw through the enjoyable and exciting adventures he’ll be having. And if my character can do it, the character _I_ created then I — Like she always says, is that dumb? 

Even if it is, I’ll accept it, a bubble that burns. There’s sincerity there that I can’t fathom matching until I kill a — 

So I don’t say anything. 

“Excuse me!” She calls out but the crowd drowns out her voice. 

So I let go of her hand. 

She half-runs to the homunculus, then taps her on the shoulder, “Excuse me.” 

“Are yo—? Um, sorry to bother you. Hahaha, yeah, this place can be really confusing. We can show you where the cakes are. O-only if you want to ofcourse.” Kayla nods like a jackhammer with an almost tearful smile plastered on her face. 

“Thank. . . Leysritt, but you call Leys.” She pulls up her ankle-length skirt and curtsies. 

“Oh. . .” Kayla tries to curtsey in reply. 

I arrive as Kayla finishes trying to introduce a previously imaginary me. There’s no time for more words. The frown on the shopkeeper's face tells us we’re taking up too much space, so we quickly take our leave, dragging the homunculus, Leys, with us. 

“So umm walnut cake. . . yeah the walnut cake here is really great.”

Is this sharp unease what Cherry felt when I left to hunt the Dead Apostle?

“Ilya. . . father fun. Sella. . . common taste. Combine. Walnut. . . cake. Everyone happy.” 

“Oh yeah, definitely.” She turns and looks at me. 

First, I need to take Kayla’s hand again. Pretending to be a couple means consistent public appearances. With that out of the way, what to ask a homunculus without giving away that I know what she is? 

“Are you here with anyone else?” There we go, safe question. Nice. Smooth as anointing oil. 

“Tuner. . . Archer . . .”

Change the subject. Change the subject. Right now! 

“Turner and Arch—?” Kayla starts. 

“ _Wow, these_ desserts _really_ look _great_!” 

“Someone’s excited.” Kayla pulls her neck back until a slight double chin pops out.

“What can I say, I’m a sucker for sweets.”

She frowns, one eyebrow drooping lower than the other, “Wasabi Chris, sweets?” 

Before the length of my silence became awkward, Leys strides up to the counter with a “walnut. . . cake?”

*****

All the Tolosa Farmer’s Market dessert section and no walnut cake. Walnut and date loaf, a staple. Homemade banana bread with walnuts in it, a crime if there wasn’t. But Leys wouldn’t budge, it was walnut cake or nothing. She did mention wing nut cake was fine too because wing nuts were actually a type of walnut or that had been what ‘Ilya’ had told her.

“Leys!” Has there been a name called out so cheerfully? “Thank you two so much for finding her. . .” 

All three of us turn, Kayla blinks twice and then her eyes widen. My heart almost stops. 

Forget the youthful blonde with green eyes that still sparkle underneath the dim, moth-infested stall lighting, freezing all of Kayla’s face muscles like the first time she met Cherry. Behind him is a towering heroic mass of muscle over seven feet tall whose aura is as suffocating as the empyrean — dematerialized. Phew, that was close. Archer smiles at me. I die inside a little; not in the good way. I’m able to keep my mind mostly clear because he’s in spirit form. 

“Are you?” Kayla starts. 

Leys said she was with Archer and the Tuner — the man looking at me. We’ve never met, but I know of him the same way he knows of me. Before he says something weird that makes Kayla suspicious or worse I need to. . . 

“Mr. Rick! Good to see you!” 

“Wrichmotifs from Youtube?

Wait, Kayla knows a magus and he’s on Youtube? 

“Chris, you know him?” She almost shrieks. 

Quick thinking. Thinking quick. 

“Ummm yeah. I was telling you about the _convention_ the Church and the town put on together. Mr. Rick is umm one of the keynote speakers, yeah.” 

There’s something about his eyes when he talks. It’s not magical; there’s absolutely no magecraft involved but they’re so gentle and caring without trying that it’s hypnotic. Like he practiced that look every single morning for ten years trying to get it just right. 

“Right! You were at the front desk helping oversee the convention. M. . . Mo. . .”

“Chris. Chris Frampton,” I extend my hand. 

He doesn’t take it. Instead, he points at me while smiling, “Chris. Frampton. Of course you are.” 

“This is my girlfriend, Kayla.” 

“K-Kayla Day.” She grabs the finger that was pointing at me and shakes it. “I really, umm, really loved your video on how the Undertale leitmotifs like were used to tell their own story. Yeah. Um, like most other content creators kind of only identify and play the tunes, but I love how your video really dissected like the musical arguments they made. I play the ukulele.” 

Heretics are getting shrewder with the decline of mystery and the rise of big data with how they present themselves to the world. But resorting to being a video game music content creator is something I still firmly believe is beneath any magus, let alone the Einzbern Tuner.

“Love the energy, Kayla! It’s fans like you who inspire us to keep creating content about things we’re passionate about instead of whatever’s popular. But, how do I put this —” He looks down at her hand wrapped around his finger, “How about you let go of my finger, and we can take a selfie?”

She blushes and immediately lets go to dive into the purse she’s carrying. 

“Hope you’re having a great time seeing what our town has to offer besides inspirational spiritual seminars, Mr. Rick.” Because any good boyfriend knows how to fill the awkward gap when his girlfriend is rummaging through what has to be a training purse. Maybe one day, she’ll carry a purse the size of one of Cherry’s. When it’s that big is it more a purse or a bag? 

“No kidding, I love the rustic, Mediterranean vibe the Central Coast of California has going for it. I’ve been to a lot of places, but this one feels. . . like a home.” Nice line. “Anyway, Chris, call me Rich.”

“Sorry, Rich. You’re German, right?” 

"Genau. It would be pronounced ‘ʁɪç’ but my friends call me Rich.”

With trembling fingers, Kayla fishes out her phone, Animal Crossing case and all. She hands it to Rich so he can take a picture of us and the forgotten Leys. 

“Thank you so much! My friends are going to scream when they see this.” Kayla says looking at the picture. “Oh, umm, Leys wanted some walnut cake.” 

“That’s where she went. I turned around for a minute and she was gone. Don’t worry Leys, we have walnut cake at home, where Sella is.”

Kayla wants to ask whether Leys is his daughter, but Leys is definitely an adult. Rich? With his boyish face, mid-twenties, but considering the lengths some heretics go mid-fifties wouldn’t surprise me. 

“How do you and Leys know each other?” I ask for her. 

“Have you two ever heard of savants?” 

I nod because I know this is all a farce. Kayla nods because she doesn’t want a Youtuber to know she doesn’t know what a savant is. 

“Leys is extremely talented at music, the strings, specifically. But she’s never been outside of her home because of her gift. She has some relatives in the US who she’s never had the chance to meet. 

Hearing that I was visiting the US for this convention and to teach at the local university, her parents, old friends of mine asked if I could take her with me because I have experience with special education.” 

“Oh wow. . . ” Kayla gasps. 

Oh wow, this heretic is good at lying to kids. 

“We should be going then.” He takes Leys’s hand. “It was really great to meet you. You’re a cute couple. Chris, by the way, give my best to Matou, we’re old family friends, after all.”

With small shivers running down my spine, I manage to wave goodbye. Even if he was at last night’s gathering he shouldn’t know that Cherry is a Master, yet. So that’s just a courtesy. As they leave, I think I saw Archer with arms crossed, raising his eyebrow at me like ‘ _she’s_ your mate?’ 

Starstruck, Kayla starts getting the photo ready to upload. “What should the caption be?!” Before I can answer, “His Insta is soooo inspirational. He was part of this campaign to reduce microplastics in the Rhine River and his dogs are so adorable! Linde, Gunde, and Floss.” 

Those aren’t cute fluffies playing in a fairytale winter forest, Kayla. They’re definitely wolves, magically enhanced wolves. 

“How about errr, ‘Guess who we heard tonight at Farmer’s?’ Heard because he does leitmotifs?” 

“Perfect. What would I ever do without you.” 

How unlike her.

“Hey, all this looking around for desserts has got me hungry. What do you —” 

“Tamales.” 

Good choice. They’re made fresh. 

“The line’s pretty long, maybe a ten-minute wait.” No matter how much heat she’s generating typing furiously on her phone, the fine hairs on her arms are still standing. She’s too nice to take your jacket, so she’s freezing. “How about I wait in line and you get a table for us.” I point to a side street where there’s an array of white, plastic tables underneath heat lamps. “One chicken and one vege right?” 

She looks up from the cinematic glow of her phone. “Oh it’s full of families. . . oh wait, there’s a girl eating ice-cream by herself. I’ll ask if we can sit with her!” 

As I slide into the tamales line behind a middle-aged white couple discussing whether they should invest some of their retirement money into that nice lady’s fashion company, I watch Kayla almost skipping to the dining area.

I want that. 

Tonight, she proved to herself that if she sincerely faced her fears, reaching for the person she wanted to be, the world would meet her with unexpected rewards. 

I want to feel that. 

So kill the Dead Apostle. 

_— All of us, no matter who we are, are merely idiotic, pathetic, weak human beings._

Kill the Dead Apostle and ~~certainly~~ , you’ll feel the gratitude that forsaken boy who drowned should feel.


	29. 27/ Farmer’s (That Dress’)

**27/ Farmer’s (That Dress’)**

The bowl-cut priest leads us to the back of the church. From the small lectern in front of a small circle of blue plastic chairs, I guess this is the room they use to teach Sunday school or host bible study.

“Hot Chocolate?” The priest asks. 

As we sit down, Mary thanks him. Phahn’s hot chocolate’s supposed to be to die for. Whatever, I missed my chance to speak up because honestly, Rider, you’re going to break something clunking about if you keep materializing in that ridiculous suit of armor. Put on some normal clothes. 

Phahn finishes making Mary’s drink. He strides over, handing her two stacked paper cups filled with steaming brown liquid interspersed with feeble amounts of foam.

She thanks him then adds, “Inspiring sermon last night, Father.” 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Mary? And you Nadine?”

Phahn doesn’t sit in a chair or move towards the lectern. He looms over us waiting for my answer. 

A call to arms for the Masters against a common enemy while legitimizing his own summoning. That’s not what he’s asking. I didn’t go to that event willingly. He asked my mom to make me go. 

“No use in pretending. You failed to scare me.” 

The classic, take the girl to a ball to show her this isn’t her world and can never be. But Phahn, that place wasn’t any different from anywhere else I’ve been. Just gaudier. 

“You’re clever, Nadine Craig, but being clever doesn’t mean Mary and you can defeat other Servants.” 

“We can’t,” I smile at Mary. “But we can help you defeat Saber.” 

“Little lady, what can that cook and yourself do against her flames, her dragons?” 

Fuck that. These are eyes that see into the world. Masters, Servants, I want to tell Rider they’re all the same, so there’s no way we couldn’t win. But we haven’t won. Mary and I have lost every single encounter these past three days. Archer and Rider saved us against Berserker. Berserker saved us against the vampire. We were saved, not because they thought us valuable, but because they had more important things to do and in doing them, we happened to be saved.

“We might lack your combat abilities, but that perceived weakness of an Assassin whose presence isn’t concealed has allowed us to easily form relationships with other Servants, for instance, Archer.” 

Sure, Mary may have stretched the truth, but the unease on Rider’s ruggedly handsome face and the bowl-cut priest’s approving nod is so worth it.

“Then why not parley with Archer?” Rider gently retorts. 

“Because. . .” 

“Because,” I can take over here. “Because Rider, you’re the one who saved us that first night.”

Rider’s about to open his mouth, but Phahn holds a hand up so I can continue. 

“We might not be able to help you fight Saber, but we can make sure the battles are uninterrupted. You have people working for you, but a Master and her Servant have more influence.” 

Phahn wants to disagree, but all the Masters present saw Archer’s expression when Rider rode out to confront Saber. The one way of proving he’s the perfect hero is having stupid fights with everyone with only one arm. 

“A valiant offering.” Wow, quick reversal, Rider. 

“What’s in it for you two?” 

To not die.

“We want your protection until both Saber _and_ the vampire are defeated.”

Rider nods, his armor creaking; Phahn’s mouth forms a little ‘o,’; Mary finishes her hot chocolate.

“We err. . . talked to someone. The vampire I asked Rider about last night attacked Mary and me. He’s related to the Grail War isn’t he? Like he’s a Master.” 

“Nadine, if he is a Master, then as overseer there is no place for Rider and myself to. . .” 

“That vampire defeated Mary.” She looks away. “Rider told me last night you have a specialist, but do you think that specialist could beat Mary in a fight? And if it does turn out to be a Master. . . only a Servant can beat another Servant, you said that too, right?”

Phahn, you’re a top negotiator? The first mistake of negotiating is assuming your opponent doesn’t know everything that you know. 

“Safe harbor to wait out the initial storm of the Grail War. Saber and potentially Lancer have their fates sealed. Caster and Berserker, no doubt ally in an attempt to defeat Archer. Your scenario creates two separate battlegrounds with you and the Archer as the last two standing.”

Yes Rider, that’s exactly what Mary told Laurent. 

“This is only curiosity talking, Nadine. But, how are you and Mary going to beat Archer?”

I take a deep breath. The final card. Time to amaze them with what these eyes have seen. 

“I’m not. As a god-fearing Catholic, I have faith the Church will clear my name.” 

Wait Mary, what? 

“Oh?”

“History and the press haven’t been kind to me, stripping me of my freedom for crimes I didn’t commit. I’m a simple woman, Father, Sir Rider. I only want my good name back. From the size of the operation you have going in this town, I’m sure you got more than enough friends in high places to investigate why I was framed.” 

Phahn crosses his arms. “Rider?”

“With the lady’s Presence Concealment, infiltrating the Mission becomes a real possibility.” 

The bowl-cut priest grins broadly, swallowing everything Mary said. 

“May this be the nativity of a mutually beneficial relationship.” Phahn extends his hand.

I reach out to grasp it but. . . 

“But infiltrating the Mission, holy ground?” Mary sounds horrified. 

Rider pulls out printouts and manages to stick them to the whiteboard with magnets. Bravo, seriously. Phahn approaches them. You’d think he was going to point something out, but instead walks right past Rider and continues circling the room. My hand dangles in mid-air, never grasping anything yet again. That’s so dumb, pull it back. 

“Saber’s Master declared war on us this morning.” Rider tries to explain. 

Saber’s Master, the rogue Church agent who decided to summon a Servant. From her picture on the whiteboard, she doesn’t seem like a person who would put a kick-me sign on herself. Actually, I take that back. Her face might scream harmless Asian lady, but the way her straight black hair almost shimmers purple in the background light screams of an atrocious dye job you only get during a quarter-life crisis, halfway down a pint to Chubby Hubby while still in your PJs. 

“But the Mission?” I ask Phahn before Mary can say anything else. 

Rider answers instead. “This church was always meant to be a temporary base of operations until the position of overseer was rightfully transferred. I’m sure you understand, our Holy Mother never expected such provocation from one She trusted. Thus such an insult must be met with corresponding force.” His voice is as rough as if his gauntlets were grinding against each other. 

“An inviolable pact of nonaggression protects the overseer’s church, a Grail War’s only truly neutral ground. There is no need for additional protections. However, a few minutes ago, multiple bounded fields were activated around the Mission. Sacrilege aside, the Mission is no longer neutral; it should be considered a workshop. The offensive necessary to break through all the defenses will require all our ground assets and at least two Servants. One Servant to keep Saber at bay and the other to help sweep the interior for threats.” 

Mary swallows the lump in her throat. Despite her personal disapproval, she knows Rider, the paragon of good ol’ Christian virtue is right. That’s why they agreed with just enough resistance to keep stringing us along. The bowl-cut priest wasn’t tolerating our request; he expected it and hoped for it. This is bad. But you knew that from the beginning, right? So nothing’s changed. 

“I’ve always told my generals preemptive attacks are the best strategy, especially to cut supply lines. Your infiltration of the Mission will be the keystone to our eventual triumph,” Rider continues.

Phahn stops beside my chair and produces a small black box the size of my thumb and a long white candle. Did he pull those out from under his robe or collected them while circling us? 

“You want us to bug the Mission and err. . . give it some mood lighting.” 

“That’s an altar candle, dearie.”

Phahn clears his throat. “Rider, their objectives.”

“Our raid is planned for Saturday sundown. Madam, you’ll want to place the device in the staff’s private quarters, underneath their kitchen or dining table.” He circles the corresponding location on the printout in red whiteboard marker. “Then, you’ll replace one of the candles.” 

“Why the altar candle?”

Mary, Mary. If the listening device is for knowing when and how to attack, then the candle has to be for the other obstacle. Laurent would know how a candle could break magical barriers. 

Rider answers, “The Mission, like most churches of its stature, has been consecrated. The diablerie Saber’s Master has applied deceptively syncretizes with the consecration. Then what if the altar, the spiritual keystone of the Mission were to be reconsecrated? Why the evil shall be expunged and the church made holy once more.” 

Religious mumbo-jumbo aside but if you repeat something enough times, it’ll start to make sense. Like, is replacing a single candle they probably bought from Costco really going to change the entire meaning of a ritual? 

Phahn’s got that ‘do you want to share with the class?’ look on his face. 

“What makes that candle special?” 

“Here, Mary,” Phahn hands her two identical-looking candles. 

I seriously hate it when people pretend to use their hands as balances. You just have to hold them, not move your hands up and down as if that’ll change your opinion. 

“One is heavier.” Her face blank from being deep in thought, Mary rolls the candle in her palm. 

“Yes, that one has been partially hollowed and filled with a container of anointing oil a Saint had blessed. You’ll want to place that candle in the leftmost or rightmost holder. Father Kelsey likes to light the middle candles for daily mass.” He takes back the candle that's just a candle. 

I see, so by adding an additional mysterious element, the magical barrier around the Mission will disappear. Two questions and I hope you have answers for these because seriously, I don’t want to deal with amateurs. . . 

“What if they just throw the candle away?” 

“Nadine, the Mission replaces their altar candles on the last day of each month. There is no danger of removal.”

“Then, what if it doesn’t burn down to the oil?” 

“Are you familiar with RFIDs?” 

Weren’t there dumbasses who declared themselves into thinking microchip implants would be the future but then phones came out. 

“I don’t see how barcodes solve bounded fields?” 

“The candle Mary’s holding has a sigil inscribed within it, similar to a RFID. With the right magical energy signal, it activates, breaking the candle.”

In summary, get Mary into Saber’s Master’s base to plant a listening device and a magic candle. Okay, when did ‘we’ll keep Archer off your back’ turn into mission fucking impossible.

“And you’ll be distracting them while we do this?” I ask.

Rider shakes his head, “We attack once, Saturday sundown. Preemptive military action will arouse suspicion. But, little lady, do you know who is very interested in crossing arms with Saber?” 

Once again, go ride yourself. 

Didn’t you just boast about how you always told your generals preemptive attacks were always the best strategy? Though I guess you can’t really expect much thought from someone who has the same aura as my meathead of a brot— bother. 

Enough about Rider. We can do this. We can do this, right? Because even Laurent said our best option was to ally with Phahn. I. . . haven’t done anything. There I said it. I haven’t done anything and I hate it. I hate it so much because even if I told myself that I would change, I would finally be someone else, all I’ve done is run away or lose. 

“If we do this, the religious bodies that comprise the Church will immediately investigate my case,” Mary says suddenly, her eyes snapping away from the candle. 

“Pardon?” Phahn doesn’t show it, but I know he’s shocked. 

“When we agreed to ally, we had no knowledge of such a potentially fatal undertaking. You’re both undoubtedly chivalrous gentlemen, so you understand our current compensation is lacking. Therefore, will the Church exert its influence upon its member religious bodies to immediately begin an investigation of my case or not?” 

But Mary, how are they supposed to investigate you without knowing who you are? 

“Tall order, woman, do not think the Holy Mother shall —” 

“Very well,” Phahn smiles so widely you can barely see his eyes. “My higher-ups will want results first. We can begin talks on the parameters surrounding the investigation after the Mission is in our hands.”

“After your candle is in the Mission.”

The clang of armor against carpet does its best to ring through the room as Rider puts down his foot and attempts to use that ridiculous bulk of his to intimidate. 

Mary holds her head high. “After your candle is in the Mission.” 

Phahn throws his hands up with a snort, “After the candle _and_ the listening device are in the Mission.” 

“Thank you, Father, Rider. Now Nadine, dearie, I believe you were going to take me to see the Farmer’s Market?” 

Ew. 

That wasn’t badass. That was pathetic.

*****

With pizza slices on paper plates, Mary and I try to carve a path through the main street turned to what romantic comedies think a subway platform looks like at peak-hour. Even if there are clearly marked yellow lines dividing the street into two, the sheeple amble forward and back in the center of the tar paddock, irrationally afraid that if they stop for a second for whatever reason, they’ll inconvenience the person behind them. Boisterously brain-dead, you drink in the fairy lights and avoid eye-contact with the vendors because god forbid they’ll magically hypnotize you into buying something you don’t want. Don’t get me started on the couples. 

Mary takes a large bite out of the slice I paid for, crust first. 

“A weekly night market, how romantic.” 

Never knew Mary was the one to gush over pathetic displays of a sociopathic general disregard for others in pursuit of an ideal so eloquently and poetically named “bae.” Worst of all, they’re definitely here, Krista and my brother. God, what am I going to say if I see them with my middle-aged ghost cook who happens to be great at negotiating breaking-and-entering deals with Catholic priests my mom definitely has the hots for. 

“Sometimes the Master of the house would give us the night off to come to one of these. Support the town, see the sights, all that city air can’t be good for you, just look at your skin. ‘Course dearie, there always was the odd, new girl who dreamed of finding her Prince Charming in a local baker or a flower store owner, but the rest of us, the ones who lived by the agency were thankful for the time off, but nothing more.”

Whatever, I can’t believe how carefree everyone here looks, unaware their city has turned into a battlefield. Bread and circuses. Everything is awesome. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be having this Farmer’s market where everything is awesome. 

“Nadine, you haven’t said a word since we got the pizza.” 

I got the pizza.

“You know, dearie,” her face breaks into a gentle smile. “Sometimes I wonder if this is a dream and when I wake up, I’ll be back on Bro— back where I was.” 

Lukewarm pizza grease mixed with slightly too salty marinara sauce slides down my throat as I swallow. Cardboard that fills you up — that’s the modern world.

“If you like it so much, why don’t you wish for a second life?” 

She’s too drunk on Tolosa’s city lights to respond. They’re too blinding; that’s why she can’t stay.

“The Grail tells me I died from a stroke. No matter the condition, I still remember being alone in that little cell trying to call for help, but quickly realizing no, no one will come and it’s not your fault, you gentle fool. You’ve loved with all your heart, you’ve tried your best so many times, and this is the end. At least, this is the end, be satisfied Mary.” She tries to laugh the stray thoughts away. “But I awake to a new world where everything is. . . is like this. And I’m, or rather, the memory of me is so. . . no way of putting it politely, I’m a joke. Nothing more than a tall tale told to children to scare them into behaving. My life ended in that cell. This is redemption, do you understand, dearie?” 

She hardly said a word during lunch and now it's pity me, Nadine. I had a hard life, Nadine. 

Why are you suddenly so blatantly obvious like everyone else? Phahn gives you a glimmer of hope and you start pouring your heart on to me. I’m done. 

“Let's go home and figure out how we’re going to get in touch with Archer.” 

I tilt the box carrying the candle towards Mary as I slide my paper plate into the trash can next to a booth that’s more like a pop-up store you see at the college during Earth Day, selling overpriced second-hand clothes and accessories.

“Sorry for the bother. That goes with the compostables.” 

A bell-like voice that will never let you forget you’ve heard it before. 

Whether she’s in an aristocratic party dress or commoner athleisure, Caster is still — 

“Mary? How divine! That dress brings out your eyes so well. And Nadine, Nadine correct? Heavens, I didn’t recognize either of you. Let me help this dear customer first and then I’d love to have a chat.” 

Unsure what to do, Mary and I stand to one side as Caster works the register. By register, I mean an iPad with a card reader. And it's not just one _dear_ customer, but a long line of women and partners with tired expressions until they see the woman at the register. I’d like to say the potential customers are all shapes and sizes but middle-aged women in Tolosa kind of have the same physique as my mom or at least anyone shopping at this store is aiming for that physique. Let’s not start with the local co-eds they’ve hired to help with the store. 

After a few minutes, it becomes apparent why the entire town and half the neighboring ones showed up at Farmer’s tonight. I’m surprised no one’s protesting a brand called Twin Towers. Maybe there would be more outrage at a New York pop-up. Or, more likely, everyone’s too excited at being able to take home a Paris Fashion Week runway-ready outfit for a price that can give Lululemon a run for their money. God, the line is going around the block now. 

This would totally be a Krista thing. Get in line as a joke repeating ‘every purchase gives a child a pair of shoes,’ ‘everything is just so cute and unique,’ or ‘so sustainable they’re carbon negative’ with ever-escalating voices, so everyone in line would know how lame they were for standing in line. If we got to the front of the line without being asked to leave, Krista would say “how about we look around; there might be something that goes well with your jacket.” 

Nothing goes with this blue ski-jacket. That’s why I wear it. That’s the joke. 

We’d end up getting something because Krista would say you can’t wait in line for that long and go home empty-handed. And now. . . with his neanderthal football attention span there's no way my brother’s going to wait in a line this long for a girl he’s going to, let’s face it, dump before this Grail War ends. 

“A thousand apologies for making you wait, my little bluebirds. There were oh so many wonderful people spellbound by my dear Estella’s textiles. Conversing with them and learning _their_ truths invigorate me so.” With palms together and eyelashes fluttering like hummingbird wings, “Allow me, dear ladies. This way to the back, where my dear Estella, who I love as a true sister, has retired to.” 

At the Tolosa Famer’s Market, the back of a booth means the back of a pick-up, but wow these are the people who waste money on glamping equipment. Four LED chandelier-lanterns hang from the pastel canvas ceiling illuminating a number of leather armchairs beside a glass coffee table to one side, and a wet bar on the other. Looks like an airport lounge ad. 

“Chilled beverage?” Caster opens the fridge, filled with the glass bottles you see in a Whole Foods refrigerated section. 

“I recommend the cider. Bottled last year at a little orchard outside our Windermere.” Sitting next to the space heater (of course they’d have a space heater) in a dress that belongs in an opera or at least a Broadway production is the Princess of Silver, Estella, with a Kindle in her lap. 

“Nadine, have you debuted?” Caster perks up. 

Regardless of the name, sixteen is bitter. “I’m seventeen.” 

“Truly? Heavens, your mannerisms speak to a certain degree of learned maturity a lady does not accomplish until her twenty-first year.” 

Holding a tray of four wine flutes, Caster skips towards the coffee table. She’s not actually skipping. Her walk was so gracefully lively there was no other way of describing it. She offers each of us our drink while curtseying. Mary’s so taken aback she reflexively curtsies back, making Caster feel obligated to reply with another curtsey. God, Mary, you don’t need to cover up your embarrassment with a sip of your drink before we even sat down. Now you got me doing it too. When I put the crystal to my lips, unsweetened apple juice fizzles, tickling my chapped lips. There’s no sharp kick.

Oh. In Caster’s mind, the modern debut means turning twenty-one. She was asking me whether I could drink or not. That’s funny. A girl becomes a woman when society is presented to her now, not the other way around. 

“Lovely cider. Crisp and tart. So refreshing after walking through the market.” 

“Oh no, Mary. You were not walking in such cold with only that dress. As your dear friend I couldn’t, I shan’t bear it if it were true.” 

Dry heat like a Tolosa noon wafts from the space heater. Not to mention Mary and you are Servants. You don’t get cold. 

“You’re absolutely right, Caster. We can’t leave our guests cold. Why don’t you show Mary around the booth to pick out a jacket and introduce her to our talent? As illustrious Heroic Spirits incarnated in the modern era, you must have many things to talk about.”

“Terrific idea as always, Estella.” 

Mary looks at me. 

“Don’t worry, Mary. Your Master will be well taken care of.” 

“Of course, Miss Estella.” I guess they don’t teach cooks how to curtsey with a crystal wine flute in one hand. Caster quickly takes Mary’s arm and starts chattering about jacket stitching as she leads Mary through the partition to the front of the store. 

Estella something Iselma, Princess of Silver and Byron’s daughter. At last night’s party, Rich said the princesses were modeled after the Sun and the Moon in an attempt to reach. . . damn, even in your head you still can’t do it. Through true beauty. She’s really pretty, almost iridescent. Her skin is almost every shade of porcelain blended together to create a soft glowing hue free of any blemishes. Free-flowing hair, a soft somehow natural grey-blue catches the hard LED light and glistens as if threaded with what hack poets describe as moonbeams. She’s beautiful as a human, not █. Caster in yoga-class leggings, running jacket, and matching scarf still feels like she’s still looking down on us from a different dimension. The women in line worshiping the register she’s handling is a testament to that. The moon really can’t shine without the sun. 

“I’m sorry I missed you. Sit, sit,” she leans over and pats the seat next to hers. “Caster was very enthused with Mary last night and I couldn’t find a second to get away. I heard you had a very interesting conversation with Father though.” 

I wouldn’t call it as interesting as the ones I have with Laurent, but I’m tired and that armchair looks much more comfortable than plastic Sunday School chairs. 

“That’s. . . a gift?” 

She nods at the coffee table where I’ve set my empty flute and candle box. 

Anyone should be able to see the candle through the box’s plastic window. Now I’m closer, that Kindle screen has raised bumps, and where the logo should be are a series of raised buttons. 

“A gift for my mom. She likes candles. She’s, umm, an interior designer.”

“How charming. I’d love to see her work. See what she can come up with for our pitiful space.” 

But you’re blind. 

“You don’t need to look at me like others do when they realize I’m blind. We’re magi; I might not be able to see you through my eyes, but I know you’re running a little hot right now and I don’t think it’s just because of the heater.” 

Laugh. Politely. And then take a sip of your drink. Shit, it’s empty, remember. 

“But even magecraft has limitations. There are spells for universal translation and intent transference, but they’re almost impossible to apply to visual media. I’d usually have Regina or Islo read me the financials for the company, but it’s astounding what can be made with a few hundred thousand pounds of funding,” she raises her braille reader. “Most magi would balk at this, but our Department Head found herself trapped within the Apple ecosystem a few years back so I shouldn’t feel too bad.” 

I want so badly to believe this woman was one of those sheltered BBC rich ladies who spend their days watching polo and playing bridge. And like, eventually she’d meet a rugged down-to-earth working-man who had financial troubles but didn’t want her money. He only wanted to show her what it truly means to live, like eating pizza and singing karaoke. Like fuck, after seeing Caster, part of me kind of hoped that fairytale ending was at least true for her kind. But hey, if this is second place, I think I like it better.

“I almost died once.” Okay Estella, where did that come from? “A lot of people make that face when I start talking. I’m exactly the person who you thought I was but when my sister died there was a cover-up, and I walked up to the most powerful woman I knew, accused her of being my sister’s murderer and asked her to kill me without any real plan, reason, or leverage. Do you know what she said?” 

“You’re an idiot, get out?” 

That perfect, thin mouth curves. “My answer exactly. She on the other hand closed an eye and said, and I still remember it after more than a decade, ‘So you're putting your own life on the line. Things really can't be easy with you these days, can they Princess? Under different circumstances I might have even taken a liking to such behaviour.’ Talk about an insult.” She almost spits. 

Because that’s not how you talk to a person. That’s how little girls praise their dolls for keeping still while having their hair brushed. If the very first thing you offer is your life, you really don’t value yourself, so what can you possibly be worth? 

“I had planned to die alongside my father that night, but we were saved. Alive, but left with nothing, so I married my childhood friend. I’m glad I was saved. I had things I couldn’t give up and a place I needed to reach, so with his family’s expertise, the Iselma continued their quest as this. . .” She vomits out the last word, afraid of defiling her throat. 

Unlike Caster, you’re a strong, independent woman who can do everything but probably has a flaw that makes you actually relatable and therefore likable but never loveable. That’s my mom’s shtick too. You’re just on a different level. 

“That’s me, warts and all.” As if you’ve ever had a wart. “Now it’s your turn, Nadine. What do you think about my father after your conversation with him?” 

Take a person, shave off all her excess and you’re left with a crescent moon. It’s refreshing because you can feel what was once there, this supernatural charm that only now lingers, urging you to speak honestly. 

“He really can’t get over himself, can he?”

Estella nods and then with the softest hint of a smile, “Then, will you help me kill Caster?” 

Will I, what? 

Excuse me. You’re talking about, 

“Talking about killing my own Father’s Servant. After the Clock Tower finished their investigation on the Iselma, my father was in ruins. Simply put, he had wagered all he had and lost. He’s a broken man. You heard him yesterday, use the Grail to reach「」. For him, nothing matters.”

It’s all just paper anyway. 

“Rich said, he reached. . . err. . . urgh, the Root.” 

“Yes,” she brushes her cheek with the back of her hand, “Father did. That’s why it's all the more inexcusable. Broken or not, I want the best for my father. You, Nadine, are a Master fighting in this Grail War for no doubt a wish you believe is important. Help me take my father home.” 

“Why me?” 

“Magi, we decide the core of something and change it as fast as we can. My father’s a prideful man. After these long years of continually having his pride stripped from him, all that remains is the pride of being prideless. You’ve heard him characterize the world and disparage everyone within it. A girl posing as a magus, you’ll be a feast.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Other than less competition? He’ll agree to teach you, you know. Magecraft. Because you disgust him, he wants to prove your worthlessness to you.” 

“I-I need some time to think.” Everything’s spinning so I get out the chair, lift one side of the tent and just walk out into the night air. Estella doesn’t try to stop me. 

Spent too long in the tent with a space heater. Forgot the candle, whatever you need to — like there’s a crushing feeling in my chest. Kill Caster, what the hell did she just. Your brain is on fire. You can’t stop thinking it’s all just bullshit. But Nadine, Laurent alone isn’t going to. Why the fuck are there just so many people here, so many fucking. “Hi, would you like to try a sample?” But you’re already helping Phahn and Rider. Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe in. As always, always in, nothing out. To reject everything to become someone I want. But you’re just a girl and no one likes you because they’re too busy farming the market for clout. Master. Mage. Magic. These are the eyes that see into the world, the eyes that make you into a Magician’s Egg. Decide the core and change it as fast as possible.

So I reject it. Master the contrary and simply brush away everything that has happened as mundane. A Master is a mage. A mage uses magecraft. This is why you are. . . now calm down and get your stupid bitch self an ice-cream sandwich from Cream. Desserts at Farmer’s are always overpriced.

*****

I find myself an empty table in the dining area and work on my scoop. Cookies felt too excessive after hearing about how the heiress of a magical fashion empire wants my help to kill her father’s guardian ghost. She’s doing it out of love. No doubt. She can’t stand to see the dismissive drunk he’s become. I don’t blame her. If dad was here right now, he’d probably. . . tell me I should have gotten an extra scoop for him. He’d ask me what was wrong. Everything. He’d ask me if there was anything he could do. No, because you died and for all this talk, all this internal monologue, I haven’t actually done anything. And honestly, I’m a little scared I’ll never be able to do anything. 

“Ummm, excuse me. S-sorry to bother you, but is it okay if like me and my boyfriend share the table. With you.” 

“Free country.” I look up. 

Even under the orange-red glow of the heat-lamps, you can still easily make out that banal freckled face. After talking with Estella, this girl looks like someone cut out a generic piece of scenery and slapped me with it. She doesn’t exude Phahn’s slipperiness, Rider’s pompous nobility, Laurent’s homeliness, or even Mary’s quiet despondency punctuated with moments of fiery ardor. She could be any one of these family members or couples eating their street food. This is the first normie who’s talked to me since the Holy Grail War started and I hate her for it. 

“Thanks. Ummm, I’m Kayla. You go to school in Tolosa? I umm haven’t seen you around. Before.”

There’s a lot of people in this shitty town I haven’t met before. Like you. 

“Mission Prep, then? Tolosa High, Nadine.” 

“Oh wow cool. Nadine, that’s umm a really unique name. Really cool.” 

The baby name website my mom got it from said it was French for ‘Hope’ and look where that’s gotten me. 

“What about your boyfriend?” 

“My boy—? Oh, yeah! Umm, his name is kind of long and he doesn’t like using it since he says it’s pretty umm pretentious. Like it's super funny when substitute teachers say it, yeah.”

“I meant like where is he?” 

“Oh gosh, sorry. I really hope you didn’t like think I was like one of those girls who ummm yammers on about their boyfriends at the first chance they get, hahaha.” She points to the food trucks and stalls as she sits down. “He’s getting our tamales.”

The last plastic spoonful of ice-cream eases the pizza grease slick in my stomach. Pizza twice in a day, no wonder I wasn’t feeling great after the sparkling apple juice in Estella’s pop-up. I’ll just leave when her boyfriend comes. I bet he’s just as sickening. 

“Do you umm like play any video games?” 

How dumb can you be to mistake a vacant stare through you as interest in your cartoon animal-covered phone case? 

Muddy green eyes, sandy blond hair, bulbous nose, slightly hunched shoulders, vapidly hopeful expression on her red face. Just why? We could have sat in complete silence for two more minutes and then I’d get up and throw my ice-cream cup in the trash or her boyfriend with the apparently ridiculous name would come over and they could nauseatingly play beer pong while pretending I didn’t exist. But you had to say something, you ridiculous girl in a spaghetti strap navy dress that your figure can’t possibly fill. Because you don’t, don’t get it with your tamales, Mission Prep, and boyfriend. This happy little life where you probably go to the Farmer’s Market every Thursday is as fucking hollow as those games you play. 

“They’re the stupidest waste of time. Press a button. If you press the right button at the right time something good happens! If you press the wrong button at the wrong time something bad happens. Everything else is a distraction or just meaningless background to make you want to press that stupid button just one more time. Just one more hit of dopamine or whatever brain chemical. You’re a fucking gerbil on a wheel, running the same loop over and over again hoping for something different until you realize it’s all the same bullshit. And you want me to pay for that? No, thank you.” 

No one looks at us. They’re too busy with their own meaningless conversations about the weather or who did what when or how someone might react to this and that. Don’t get me wrong, what I said and how I said it was just as meaningless. I can see that. 

The girl, Kayla, shrinks in her plastic chair like I’ve slapped her across that pathetic, freckled face. That was bad. This is awkward. I end up crumpling the ice-cream cup in my fist. It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault you woke up to your best friend giving your brother a handjob which made you join a magical war. Great, now she’s retreated to the comforting glow of her phone. No, she’s just staring at it for a few seconds before putting it down. 

While looking at the table with her face half crumpled, “Look, I-I don’t know who you are and what you’re going through but you can’t talk to people like that especially in a public place or like anywhere. All I wanted to do was find a place for my boyfriend and me to sit. He’s getting us food so I volunteered to find us seats because he’s been really nice to me like he knew that I was cold and offered me his jacket and I want to show him that I’m a nice person too. If you didn’t want me to sit here because you were having a bad day or whatever I’m sorry but y-you should have just said that and I c-could have sat somewhere else. And yeah video games can be like dumb but there are some really good ones that are like at the forefront of artistic expression in the way they errr integrate multiple forms of mediums to create unforgettable experiences for players. And I think you would know that if you had ever played a game or something because this isn’t sexist or anything but you look like you’re the type of girl who’s too cool to try things and I’m not saying that’s a bad thing because I used to be really scared of trying things too but then I started being myse— Sorry, that’s beside the point. I don’t know why you are the way you are and it’s none of my business but whatever what I’m trying to say is that what you said was really mean because I just wanted to let you know that Rich from the Wrichmotifs is here in case you were interested in seeing him because at least at my school a lot of kids our age are fans and he’s a really nice and inspirational person and I was really happy to see him and you’ve kind of just ruined my night.”

Rich is at Farmers? 

I don’t understand half of what she said and why she said it. It’s dumb. This is dumb. I have more important things to worry about. She’s dumb. Like really dumb. I worry for her boyfriend. I need to leave, but I’m not going to let her have the last word. 

“Hey, Kayla, right? That dress is too nice for a jacket anyway.” 

He must really be someone special if you’re dressing like that despite what you actually look like. It doesn’t suit you. Who do you think you are in those saved photos of yours anyway? 

Crazy that I almost crack a smile. Somehow that barrage of nonsensical emotional diarrhea lightened my mood. Nadine Craig will become someone else, someone above this rabble who avert their eyes instead of looking straight into the world. Turning on my heel without looking back at the plastic tables and canvas umbrellas I walk back into the circus of a Farmer’s Market towards the waving cook in her new jacket. Find Rich, then, let my Holy Grail War begin.


	30. 28/ Camilla (I)

**28/ Camilla (I)**

“Rich is here.” 

“Caster invited us to volunteer at a soup kitchen tomorrow evening.” 

“A soup kitchen?” 

“The market? Right now?” 

We’re pretty bad at trading information. 

“And dearie, can’t believe you forgot the candle.” She hands me the box I left with Estella, “What happened?”

“Nothing, just needed a bit of fresh air because. . . whatever, we got to find Rich.” To convince Archer to fight Saber tonight. 

Kids brush my knees, parents sliding by not bothering to apologize because they’ve already apologized to the five people before us. A half-drunk stumbling girl bumps into my shoulder, her drink sloshing then hitting the tar road. That makes me wince. There are hundreds of people here; how are we supposed to find Rich? 

Lightbulb. The same glint appears in Mary’s eye too. 

“Live music!” She points to the patch of asphalt that’s not even an excuse for a stage. Take away the amps and the mic-stands, may as well be a busking station. 

“Kettle Corn!” I point to the dessert booths then remember they don’t sell kettle corn, just the caramel-covered stuff. Eh, he could be making the same mistake. 

We walk to one side, flip a coin, I call tails and lose. 

Performing on the raised wooden stage is your typical small-town band with a female singer covering generic 2015 pop songs to about ten families animatedly swaying to the beat so their giggling toddlers will do the same. No Rich though. Found him looking for kettle corn at the dessert booths. 

“Nadine! Mary! Great to see you two. We were just about to check out the band. Great if you could join us.” 

‘Us’ was a woman with Fillia’s hair and red eyes in a space-nun outfit. Family uniform I guess. No sign of Archer, but Mary said he was in ghost form behind them. 

“This is Leys.” 

The space-nun named Leys curtsies while walking through a crowd without bumping into anymore. Mary and Caster, I understand, but you’d think modern women would be beyond curtseying. It’s strange though, no one’s bumping into me anymore as we walk down the thoroughfare. 

“She’s Fillia’s bodyguard.”

“F. . . Ilya. . . yes.”

When we reach the wooden stage again, our little party of four plus one ghost stands about two feet behind the other families. Seems the band has switched to one of their originals. No one is listening anymore. I see two cameras out. I’m sure they’re more interested in promoting ‘live music at Farmer's than whatever this indie band has come up with. 

“Got any pointers for them, Rich?” Mary asks. 

“Me? That was such a hearty effort that I couldn’t. You can tell they’re doing it for the music.” With that refreshing smile, he shakes his head, “Anyway, no use asking me for performance tips. Couldn’t play a note in tune to save my life.” His short laugh is like a bird’s trill that sends the morning dew plummeting onto the ground. 

“What about magecraft. Can you give me some pointers?” 

He laughs, “Don’t ask questions with obvious answers.”

“Yeah, thought so.” No part of me was disappointed because my eyes saw that this man would never share that part of himself and risk dividing its value. “Where’s Fillia? We had something we wanted to tell her.” 

Rich checks his phone, “She’ll be here with the car in about ten minutes. She had me bring Leys since Archer would be in spirit form.” 

You say that, but why would you need to bring Archer to something like this. . . oh, of course, he must have been the one who wanted to come. Okay, so then why is Filia’s bodyguard protecting _you_? 

“Are there any messages you would like me to pass onto milady? After last night, I take you’ve reevaluated your position on our generous non-aggression pact?” 

“Sorry to disappoint, dude. Just thought she should know Saber’s Master lives in the Mission.” 

Rich starts muttering under his breath, “I knew it. Why else would Matou. . . then that boy was. . .” He takes a breath, “Where did you get this information?” 

Shit. Can’t say, oh the overseer told us because then Rich would be like, why doesn’t the bowl-cut priest take care of it himself and why would he tell you to tell me. Oh crap, it’s been too — 

“Nadine was showing me the Mission today. I’m Irish. Irish Catholic. Wonderful place. But for some reason, there were bounded fields within the holy space. Nadine, the poor ganch, fell into one and Saber appeared.” 

“I sure underestimated you, Mary, if you got away from Saber.”

“S-She was in spirit form. We were close to the public museum section,” I quickly say. 

He half buys it in his eyes we’re too dumb to lie. “Why are you telling me this? Why not go to the overseer; he’s the one actively hunting Saber.”

“Rider. . . can’t beat Saber.” Last night’s holographic truth that was seared into my eyeballs. Rider can put up a good fight, but Saber’s stronger than him in every aspect. That’s a half-truth. Saber is clearly stronger than Rider, but Phahn has enough resources to revise Mary’s history. Both Rich and I know this, so here comes the piece de resistance, “And Archer looked really excited last night when he was watching their fight.” 

“We shouldn’t be doing the overseer’s job for him,” Rich says to empty space behind him. “Yes, we do have a bone to pick with the Matou.” He turns back to us, “When’s the market closing?”

My phone says a quarter to nine. “Twenty minutes. The food rescue volunteers are already collecting the excess veges. The place should be empty in like fifteen?” 

“Cheers. Thanks for the heads up, Nadine.” He clicks his tongue. “You’re not a half-bad Master, forcing Arch— milady’s hand like this.”

Say that to me with your mage face.

“I get why you won’t teach me magecraft, but can I at least get Fillia’s number? Because you guys owe me, us.”

“You kind of make me want to take that back now. You still have a long way to go if you think milady would lower herself to using something as degenerate as a cell phone. But I can give you mine.” I slip my phone into his outstretched hand. “By the way, Nadine. What were you doing on campus yesterday? You’re in high school, right?” 

Weird question. “Mary wanted to check it out. Something about the chance to see scholastic opportunity provided to women in this enlightened era was too good to pass up?” 

“No dearie, you didn’t want to show your face at school.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “You wanted to hike up to the dorms because you can see the entire campus from up there, but your Command Spell started hurting.”

That doesn’t sound like me. I hate hiking because it’s the only thing people in this town talk about with even a hint of nuance. I do remember my Command Spells hurting though. 

“Only because when we toured the city, you were really excited about the campus. Anyway, what’s it to you, Rich?” 

“Amazed that you happened to walk into my guest lecture. Small world.” Don’t exaggerate. The world’s huge; Tolosa’s just small enough that you can run into a vampire’s feeding ground after ditching a party. He hands me back my phone. 

“Have a safe trip home. Great networking with you!” 

I give him a thumbs up that’s as fake as that line. 

With that, I’ve set up the distraction. Now, how are we going to get in?

*****

After leaving the Farmer’s Market, Mary and I sneak into an empty parking structure a block away from the Mission. You can usually get an unobstructed view of the Mission’s gardens and back entrance on the top floor. The only problem? I pull my jacket sleeves over my fists and hug my knees behind the cement barricade.

“A-Anything?” 

Mary stands tall with a frown on her face. Her elbows rest on the metal railing, and her new, stylishly oversized knit Twin Towers brand jacket flaps in the bone-chilling night wind.

“No magical energy yet. Did you set that timer, dearie?” 

“It’s on vibrate. Five m-more minutes.”

Mary said there’s a bounded field, a magical barrier that won’t allow anyone inside the Mission, that popped up when the sun went down. Mary’s Class Skill, Presence Concealment should be enough to get her through the bounded field undetected, but because she’s going to be carrying a candle and the listening device that’s currently in my jacket pocket, she can’t go in as a ghost. The way she explained it, Presence Concealment is similar to obfuscation magecraft. At really high ranks you can’t see or recognize her even if she’s standing right in front of you. I’m guessing a high rank would mean a butterfly, Mary’s is a fat caterpillar, not even a chrysalis, so it’s difficult to sense her presence but possible if the Servant or Master have strong magical energy-sensing abilities. Luckily, we’ll have Archer starting an all-out assault on the Mission, giving Mary the perfect opportunity to jump down, make her way across the street, and sneak in. As for me, I’ll be up here looking after her new Twin Towers jacket, trying not to catch a cold. 

We took ten minutes to get from Farmers to the top of the parking structure. I called the bowl-cut priest, letting him know what was happening tonight and to have the app or program he was going to use to listen ready. Then came the waiting. There’s a lot Mary and I could have talked about that five minutes like what do you mean Caster invited us to volunteer at a soup kitchen tomorrow, what’s so bad about infiltrating a church when the priest who rightfully owns the place tells you it’s okay, or Estella asking me to help her kill Caster. But there are butterflies in my stomach that might really be Mary’s. I want to say something Masterly like, ‘I’ll use a Command Spell if things get bad’ or maybe even ‘that’s a nice jacket.’ Still, what sort of pathetic Master am I to say, ‘Good luck!’ as she tries to infiltrate another Master’s headquarters while I’m freezing my ass as a glorified coat hanger? 

Without warning, Mary pushes herself from the railing to face the vista of empty parking lot spaces. 

“Ma—” 

“Get up, girl.” She swallows. “They’re coming.” 

I clamber up, my hands in my pockets. My invisible Command Spell hurts. That means. . . 

Click, click, click. 

The footsteps don’t come from the staircase behind the locked door on the left corner of the room, but the incline the cars use to access rooftop parking. Step by step, a woman I’ve never seen before forges into our reinforced concrete wasteland of faded white lines and half-functioning parking lot lights.

Strawberry blonde, pointed face with slight bags under her gentle eyes, she might have her hands up but honestly, I don’t know if she’s surrendering or threatening us, because on the back of her right hand is a Command Spell, the three strokes creating an angelic bird with a sword as a beak facing the light-polluted sky. 

“Mary, if I jump off the roof can you handle the landing?” 

“First time for everything, dearie. . .” 

Okay, I don’t want to go splat so that’s going to be our last option. 

“Nadine. Can I call you Nadine? I don’t want to fight.” Too calm, too controlled, her voice effortlessly warms the chilly night air between us without betraying any emotion. “I’m Amelia. My mom named me after one of her heroes. I represent the U.S. Government in this Holy Grail War. I know you’re not a magus, just a normal high school student who got caught up in this. I know your Servant isn’t controlling or coercing you. I know that the overseer being a Master in this war makes it difficult to resign. But I need to let you know that if you keep fighting, not only you but the people you care about are going to be in danger. I can help you. I have been helping you. We have people who can protect you and your family until this all blows over and you go back to school, take those SATs, and get into a good four-year college. How does that sound?” 

Stop being a Master? 

I can help you, I’ve _been_ helping you. . . 

Mary sprawled in a puddle of her own blood while I was frozen, a claw kneading my skull, tightening until I felt like it was pulling at my insides. My chest clamps itself at the memory because switching on my magic circuits isn’t what saved me. It was a white-gloved hand crushing the vampire’s deathly pale wrist. 

“She’s. . . Berserker’s Master.” Words croak out from my dry throat. Come on, say it louder, with more force, otherwise, “She’s Berserker’s Master. The doctor she was talking about at the party.”

Mary grows pale. 

“Look, Nadine,” Berserker’s Master is about five meters away from us now. “You’re not the first civilian to accidentally enter a Holy Grail War. There was a nice freelancer who came back home to visit his parents. Found some ancient documents in the shed with instructions on how to summon a demon. Thought it would be a laugh. Summoned a Servant who **forced** him to kidnap children. Another Master put a bullet in him, right here.” She taps the middle of her sizable forehead. “An ethics teacher came across a wounded Servant who had just lost her Master. Nice guy. Took her in and made a contract with her so she could stay in this world. Practice what you teach, right? Found out she was draining the neighbors’ life force because he couldn’t supply her with energy. Stabbed right in the heart. As luck would have it, that teacher had a student who became a Master as well. Orphaned by a previous Grail War, he probably fought because he felt like he needed to make sure bad things didn’t happen in his town again. But against magi? Servants? He didn’t stand a chance. And. . .” She hesitates but pushes through. “There was a girl. She was only ten but the Holy Grail gave her Command Spells. She still haunts me.” Why did she suddenly look to her left for a moment? “A-anyway, it’s not just Masters. My own sister was a cop, a lieutenant. Her squad was trying to protect the citizens of Snowfield from being collateral in a Holy Grail War. To this day, I don’t know what really happened to her. Nadine, please, I don’t know what the other Masters and overseer have told you but this is not a game.” 

Snowfield, Nevada. Right after a bunch of politicians died from heart attacks there were some freak storms and a pandemic there. The entire city went into lockdown. I was a kid but I remember my mom panic buying toilet paper in case it ever spread. That was all related to a Holy Grail War? 

But, like, you don’t need to speak to me like I’m a kid. 

The Holy Grail War is dangerous. I know. 

This isn’t a game. I know. 

People die. I know just as well as you do. 

You don’t need to unload your entire sob story onto me.

“I — We’re going to clear Mary’s name!” 

Nadine Craig yells back because she wants to be someone else. On the roof of this vacant parking lot, I’m confronting you as a Master, not some pathetic girl no one understands because they’re too blind to see the world in all its mystery. I can’t let that go. I won’t let that go. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you take that away from me! 

So, I’ll reject everything you are to accept everything I want to be. 

Annoyed, she mumbles, “What? No, of course, I’m not going to. . .” Is she talking to Berserker? “We’re willing to work with you. That’s not a problem, at all. Let me take you and your Servant in and we’ll figure out what Mary wants to be investigated and all our agency’s resources will be at her disposal. You have my word as a doctor. First, do no harm. I’m trying to make sure as few people die as possible.” 

Mary steps forward; she’s almost a sickly shade of pale green. 

“Mary?” 

Unbridled pale fury. 

“You don’t get to spake that line, Doctor. No, not again. How many times do you think you so-called ‘medical professionals’ have promised the EXACT FUCKING THING! Take the tests, Mary. Humiliate yourself and take the tests then we can help you. Help you, we’re only trying to _help_ you. We’re keeping you here because of you; we’re trying to help _you_. And you can help us help you. Because that’s all we’re thinking about, your best interest. You _want_ to be helped, don’t you, Mary? You need to be helped because you’re an uneducated, Irish COW! Not this time!” Breathing ragged, she’s burned most of her fury off. “Nadine, we’re getting out of here. . . Jump.” 

Berserker’s Master, the Doctor, Amelia, whatever, her arms slump to her side as she realizes, “You’re. . .” 

“Nadine. Jump,” Mary says without looking back at me. 

“No Mary, you’re going to attack her.” Hands trembling in my pocket, I say so as calmly as possible. 

“Nadi—” 

“Mary, listen to me.” I cut her off because, “The alarm just went off.”

The world heaves and convulses as two shockwaves of divine magical energy collide a street away. The after-effects produce enough illusory air pressure that the Doctor and I both reflexively shield our faces. Yes, both the Doctor and I.

Her charge might not be as tempestuous as Archer’s or as fiery as Saber’s, but she’s still a Servant. My Servant. 

The twenty feet separating us are chopped and diced in less than a second.

That’s the time difference for those who the tsunami of magical energy caught unawares and those who expected it, using it to their advantage. 

The silver meat cleaver is drawn and raised in a single practiced motion. She’s not a killer, she says, so let your fury drive that knife. Cut her legs, her arms, any part of her that attempts to compel us into accepting that we aren’t fit for this moonlit world. 

— Crunch. 

The sound of steel carving into meat.

— Cling. 

Metal yields to flesh and shatters. 

“Mary —!” 

A flurry of white fists and then a finishing crimson kick send my Servant flying into the metal railing. The impact cracks the supporting concrete and bends the railing, but it doesn’t snap so Mary doesn’t plummet into the street below. She howls at her impossibly broken limbs. 

Berserker materialized and defeated Mary in less than the moment it took for Mary to close the gap.

Inverted nerves grind against each other as Mary starts pulling something vital from inside of me. My insides are on fire, molten butterscotch again, no, liquid steel, and I can see my death quickly approaching. Ram’s horns erupt from my head, the leathery wings on my back snap open, skin melts off to reveal scales. The pot boils over in a walk-in freezer. A contradictory illusion isn’t a fantasy if the feeling is real. 

I gasp, “Mary, get up.” 

Everything inside of me gets pushed out. 

“GET. UP.” 

I eject my life into the magic circuit rejecting my body until I can taste blood in my mouth. Mary starts snapping. The excess magical energy I’m sending struggles to set her broken bones. 

Slowly, she pushes herself off the ground. She can move again, but only that, move. 

Amelia’s silent, looking off to her left, again. Berserker hasn’t moved, waiting for her Master’s command. She won’t wait much longer; she’s confirmed Mary’s an enemy that needs to be exterminated, no, sterilized.

There’s no escape. Even if I were to jump off the roof and Mary correctly handled the landing, we couldn’t outrun that crimson health nut. 

“Nadine. . . ” A desperate weak voice. 

Our connection tells me it’s nothing fatal. My clairvoyance shows me Berserker has a skill, Anatomy Understanding. From the description, she instinctively targets a human’s vital points and cripples them with surgeon-like precision. Fighting Berserker, you can’t expect anything less than what Mary’s experienced. But at the same time, there’s nothing more to a Berserker. 

“Tsu— Nadine. If you keep this up. Your Servant, Mary, is going to die.”

Because she’s not strong enough. 

Not enough. 

There wasn’t enough magical energy. Archer and Saber’s clash easily overshadowed the amount both Berserker and Mary spent. But everyone’s stopped, except me. 

“I’ll supply you with more magical energy. You’re fighting.” 

This rooftop that was so cold five minutes ago is hot to the point that I’m sweating uncontrollably. Instead of my ski-jacket, I peel the covering off my Command Spell without laying eyes on the numerous eyes mocking my uselessness against another Master with that constant prickling pain. 

“Nadine?” Something looks up at me, almost begging. 

Berserker or me. Who is she really scared of?

That doesn’t matter. Concentrate on the feeling. You’re not special, no one is. But you don’t need to be like that girl waiting for tamales. You don’t need a boyfriend to make you interesting. You don’t need a best friend to tell you you’re worth something. You don’t need to be divided. The difference is in the knowing. For these are eyes that see into the world. I must be mystery: isolated, self-complete, unreachable. . . for everything is paper. So you don’t need to search for the Truth like everyone else because it's Right here.

Right? 

Right. 

The soundless roar of my magic circuits makes everything go red. My face is numb, my knees are numb, even my fist in my jacket pocket, desperately clenched, is numb. I won’t let myself fall because that means yielding to a cruel, fake world where the script is more important than the reality I see in front of me. 

“AAAAHHHHHHH —!” Mary gets up shouting to rid herself of fear, fury, feeling so that she can commit to a feeble rush. 

Half, no, a third of the speed as before gives Berserker entire seconds to respond.

Paring knife — bent out of shape.

Boning knife — blade sent flying.

Chef’s knife — shattered.

Mary — tossed aside like biological waste. 

Berserker walks away from her Master, stepping towards Mary’s spent body. With the waning once-blue Tolosa moon glistening behind her, Berserker looks down, not at Mary’s face but just below her ribcage. 

“Why aren’t you sick?” An innocent question. 

“Because I’m strong.”

“You are misinformed. Muscle hypertrophy has no effect on immune response.”

A wad of spit squarely hits Berserker’s face. Steel-faced, Berserker simply reaches into her chest pocket for a disinfectant wipe. Without taking an eye off Mary, Berserker wipes her left cheek, then crumples the soiled wet wipe in her fist before dropping it onto Mary’s equally crumpled body. A lady never litters, so Berserker materializes a grenade they might have used in one of the World Wars to dispose of the trash. 

Utter travesty. I’d be laughing if I could move my face. Servant. Master. Equally useless. But this is what it means to be a Master. This is what it means to be a mage. My eyes tell me this is right. This is where you belong. On top of a concrete wasteland, body on the brink of breaking, magic circuits spent, holding your clenched hand up high just a moment before Berserker pulls the pin, you announce what has been in your hand this entire time. That everything happening on this rooftop is being recorded and transmitted. 

We’re all thrown off-balance, but this time it's not because our magic circuits are rattling from a tidal wave of divine magical energy. The very concrete underneath our feet starts trembling. All my expended magical energy has been a beacon to make this one moment happen. 

“Your reinforcement has ARRIVED —!” A jolly shout from. . . below. 

The ground underneath Berserker’s feet cracks and then ruptures as a greatshield breaches, spraying chunks of concrete, grey asteroids with no orbit to follow, all over the vacant lot. As cement dust begins to settle, I can’t help wondering how many floors of the parking structure he broke through.

“Ri. . . der?” In one swift motion the Doctor unholsters her handgun. 

He pays her no attention. He only has eyes for Berserker. “Good evening, deserter.” 

The insult doesn’t register. Berserker has unfinished business. She pulls the pin like it’s the tab of one of my mom’s diet sodas, and pitches the grenade at Mary’s powerless body. 

— Clang. 

With one sweep of his shield, Rider parries the explosive on a stick, sending it high in the sky where it detonates, filling the lot with the acrid smell of gunpowder and burned shrapnel. 

“Berserker, please stop.” The Doctor is still pointing her peashooter at Rider. He just deflected Berserker’s grenade. There’s no way that smaller grenade you pulled out of your pocket will do anything. “Nadine. Did you ally with the overseer?” 

“The treaty was drawn and signed earlier this evening.” Rider answers before any instance of the truth can come from my mouth. 

“What happened to Church neutrality? Phahn said it himself last night, ‘we will neither harm nor aid any of you.’ How can you call yourselves the faithful?” The Doctor says in a dead voice. 

“I have been notified of the contract between this union of states’ governing body and the Church. Milord remains neutral. If you recall, healer, the overseer impartially gives shelter to all Masters who seek it.” 

“She still has everything to do with me.” The Doctor says through gritted teeth to no one in particular, before turning to me. “Nadine, you forfeited?” 

I try to answer but my throat seizes up. What was red starts to flicker. 

“Both Servant and Master renounced the Holy Grail but showed interest in helping bring Saber and her Master to justice. The Church’s neutrality remains unblemished. We understand your confusion. As this was a recent development, we had little time to send a missive. Nadine Craig and her Servant are hereupon commissioned by the Church to aid in overseeing the Grail War under the supervision of Father Sancraid Phahn. On the other hand, Amelia Levitt, invited representative of this union’s governing body, was your Servant not aiding Saber last night? If you continue to ally with the traitor, the Church will have no choice but to. . .”

He stops because Amelia lowered her gun, pocketed the egg-shaped grenade, and is running at me. 

I’ve fallen to my knees, blood uncontrollably spilling from my mouth. It gurgles out, clogging my throat, saturating my lungs. 

Something inside me must have ripped. Who am I kidding, everything probably ripped. 

I’ve lost so much control that my chest seizes up and my thighs are wet. Without oxygen circulating through my body, my knees quickly lose strength and I’m on my back.

Someone yells my name, but I’m not interested. 

When that superhuman force ran rampant through my body, I finally felt something that I hadn’t in a long time. It welled up and filled every cell in my body just long to make itself known, and even if a flood of pain quickly drowned it out, the sensation’s phantom lingered just enough for me to savor what could have persisted. In that maelstrom of mystery, these eyes found a scar everyone who’s ever walked this path shares.

Black oblivion begins filling the edge of my vision. 

With all my remaining strength I reach out into the empty, blue-grey light pollution for the stars no one else can see. . . 

What a glistening, accepting truth. 

. . . I don’t want to die.

*****

Ba-dump.

An external will forcibly injects life into my heart. The only difference between a defibrillator and this? My dad’s heart never restarted, mine does. 

I gasp and splash. 

The red, viscous liquid around me doesn’t let me struggle and honestly, I’m too tired to do anything but float so the current takes me along the pristine maze. No matter how the water (?) laps at the tightly packed white marble walls they don’t stain. Pity, it’d look better in checkerboard. At least the sky is the right color. Because the color of the sky is supposed to be a reflection of the water. Relieved, I close my eyes and let the buoyant forces wrap around me, a little boat floating down a river one summer morning a lifetime ago.

*****

This pillow is crushing my ear so I turn my face and no-oww, this pillow is crushing my forehead. Not a pillow, the back of a chest plate. That’s when the gamey, earthy smell underneath me hits my nostrils. Not the gentle rocking of my dad’s old boat, it’s a horse and my arms are draped around the rust bucket Rider calls armor.

Where’s my phone? 

This fabric isn’t denim. How did I get in tights and God this isn’t my underwear. 

Shit, grab onto horse’s butt or you’re going to fall. 

“Hey girl, comeon, comeon.” Rider rubs the horse’s neck. “What in the Blessed Lord’s name are you doing back there, little lady.” 

“Got it.” 

My phone was stuffed between the waistband of second-hand underwear and tights like the women in my mom’s gym cult who can’t afford the tights with pockets stitched into them. The display says one in the morning, So I’ve been out for three, maybe four hours. No messages, that’s strange. You’d think my mom would be — 

“Rider. . . where’s Mary?” 

She’s alive. I can still faintly feel her through our Master-Servant link, but the looming presence that’s so enraptured with an undeserving world isn’t beside me anymore. 

“Unnecessary worry, little lady. Milord constructed a holy circle for her to rest within. She’ll be combat-ready come dawn.”

Right, Mary and I were supposed to infiltrate the Mission but a fight broke out with Berserker on the parking structure’s roof. Man, that was cringe, wasn’t it, losing control of your bladder because you overused your magic circuits. I’m just glad. . . 

“What happened after I fainted.” 

~~No, you fucking almost died.~~

“Berserker deployed her Noble Phantasm to heal you. Quite honorable adversaries.” Noble Phantasm. That was the thing I didn’t need Archer to explain. “Milord soon arrived with support. He took the servant and yourself back to the Church. Don’t worry, he had female Executors proficient in healing look after you.” 

A sigh of relief, it wasn’t the bowl-cut priest though I suspect he’s the one who picked out these galaxy print tights from the clothes donation. “Milord called your mother who insisted he take you back home rather than allow you to stay in the church overnight, but considering the repairs necessary, here I am, at your service.” 

At my service? Rider, you’re trotting down suburban Tolosa on a fully armored horse. 

But I won’t bust his balls about that because I feel good. Like for once, I want to get home as fast as possible so I can go to bed and see what tomorrow brings. Do people usually feel this good after collapsing from exhaustion? 

“Thank you, Rider,” I say to his metallic back. “For coming to help us.” 

“My pleasure, little lady. Though it was wholly out of duty. No pleasure was taken.” He forcibly chuckles at what he thinks is a little joke. 

I laugh a little because it’s terrible. 

“I must confess, little lady; this moment calls in the tides of nostalgia.”

Are knights this dramatic because they’re chivalrous or chivalrous because they’re dramatic? If it snowed in California this would be a scene from the annual Netflix Christmas romantic comedy. Should have left me on the rooftop, renaissance faire. 

“After an unceremonious weekend hunt, my boys would ride back home with me like you’re doing so now. Like any other good father, I would tell them fairy stories. Their favorite concerned a king’s bastard, son of a favored concubine. After the king died, his evil stepmother imprisoned the boy so she could rule as regent. Naturally, as these stories go, the boy broke out of prison and using his preordained princely nature, stirred a rebellion, overthrowing the evil stepmother. Thus, the kingdom lived happily ever after.” 

Suppress the yawn. I think we’re just about five streets away? 

“They really loved that one. Really did.” He coughs out a laugh. “But when you love something, you interrogate it, doubly so for children. They would ask all sorts of questions like if the prince had a magic sword, how did he break out of the prison, or what did the evil stepmother do to the citizens. Naturally, I would answer, humoring them, trying to instill a sense of wonder, or perhaps reveling in fatherhood. Peculiar, how after all this time I still remember. As I made up answers or reused material from other stories I knew I would wonder about the characters I was embellishing. The stepmother was only evil and the boy only became king because the story called for it.”

Characters aren’t people, though. They’re vehicles you make do something to drive home some moral. Words on paper, they can never truly come alive, no matter what the Holy Grail does. That’s you, renaissance faire. 

“You’re a Heroic Spirit. How about when you go back to the Throne, you ask the hero of that story about what he thinks of what you told your kids? Anyway, your kids, they really loved those stories didn’t they?”

He removes his helmet, turns and raises his eyebrows. 

“Aye, they truly loved those stories.”

I want to vomit because I can’t stand looking at someone who’s like my brother, positively glowing. Turn back around already. 

“What’s your point, Rider?” 

“Heroic Spirits are traditions that lend ourselves to future generations, inspiring them, warning them. “ 

“What profound knowledge did you want to bestow upon me, Sir Rider?” 

“After each battle, I would walk through the fields of the dead reminding myself to be faithful, for my cause was true. You’re bright for a girl, little lady, and glory does lie in the battlefield. But you almost burned out tonight. Next time, your enemy is not going to heal you.”

I’m doing fine on my own thank you very much. Did you see how great I was out there tonight? And you, when you strip away the mystery, you’re just the same as everyone else, mansplaining your life away to a supposedly rapt audience who can only parrot what you say because they’d rather look at you. 

“A warning then.” 

“If that’s what you heard. Best of luck tomorrow, little lady.”

He stops in front of my house and I thank him for the ride, but not the chat as I dismount. By the time I get to the front door he and the armored horse are already gone. Ghost form I presume. 

The house is dark so I use my phone as a flashlight. Turns out there was no need because my mom scuttles out of her room as soon as she hears the door creak open. Half-dressed she looks at me from the stairs.

“Turn that thing off.” 

I shimmy my wrist so the spotlight dances on her for a moment. She’s beside herself.

“How on God’s good earth did you get drunk off communion wine?”

First, God’s good earth, that’s new. 

Second, what the fuck you bowl-cut priest. 

“I thought it was errr, normal wine?” 

“Did you think about me, at all? How embarrassing to have my own flesh and blood. . . shit. I can’t even say it. You have to make it up to that nice priest. I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but you. . .” 

“No problem, mom. I actually really like working there.” 

Check. 

“Give me your phone.”

“What n—”

“Nadine Francine Craig, give me your phone.” 

I hand it to her and she shines the light at my face. Fuck, it’s blinding. 

“Say that again.” 

“Mom!”

 _“Say it again.”_

“I really like working there. Even going to volunteer at the local soup kitchen tomorrow with them, geez.” 

She switches the light off. All I can see are rainbow rings and translucent floaters. 

But Mate. 

“Thankfully, Sancraid said he would keep it all under wraps. I have enough to worry about tomorrow night.”

“What’s tomorrow night?”

“To think how proud of you I was before Sancraid called. Turning this whole teen angst thing you have going for you into something positive for once. But no, you don’t deserve to know, Nadine. Not anymore.”

Wait. Hmph, so that’s how you pronounce his name, huh. Disturbing. And what does she mean to deserve to know? 

“People don’t deserve anything, mom.” I start walking up the stairs. I have to infiltrate a magical fortress masquerading as a church tomorrow. Whatever interior my mom’s helping design is not even a tertiary concern anymore. “Night, hope that movie was good.” 

There was a half-finished bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.

“That was Krista and your brother. She waited for you, you know, wanted to clear the air. But someone was so drunk they spilled communion wine all over themselves.” 

Oh. 

“Hear her out, Nadine, she’s always been good to you and for you.”

Oh?

And I’ve always said — 

“And I’ve always said, it was just a matter of time before she fell for your brother.” 

There we go. You’ve never actually said that though. You just think every girl will inevitably fall for my brother because who wouldn’t. He’s so perfect. 

Normally, I’d get mad and storm off to my room because I know that perfection is all everyone sees in him with their imperfect vision. 

Tonight, I smile. No, not to humor her. 

Just. What a useless, mundane perfection.


	31. 29/ Winter’s Detritus

**29/ Winter’s Detritus**

Kayla was unusually flushed and quiet when I brought the tamales to the table. Most families had finished eating, so we could move if the lamps were too hot. She kept shaking her head and thanking me for the food. I took out a wasabi packet, tore it and squirted a pea-sized dollop onto the masa. She rolled her eyes. After four months, a practiced reflex. 

“Why wasabi?” She almost always asks me that too. 

“There are people who like bacon soda.”

“Chris, no one thinks bacon is cool anymore.”

“What about putting melted cheese on everything?”

“Doood, melted cheese on anything is so good.”

“It’s like that but wasabi.” 

“But ummmm, can you really taste anything?”

I take another bite out of my chicken tamale and count off the ingredients in my head. “The wasabi just makes it better. An extra kick.”

“I don’t know. Aren’t tamales like pretty good on their own.” 

Sure, you can taste every ingredient and spice used to make this cuisine, but when you add something that doesn’t belong, i.e. wasabi, you can glimpse true flavor within the oxymoron before the impurity blocks everything out.

We continue eating and chatting. By we, I mean, she gossips about what’s going on at school, what song she wants to learn on the ukulele next, and the progress she’s made in the new game she’s playing. I ask questions so she’ll keep ummming and liking. When our Farmer’s date is over, I, as always, take her to a small parking lot down the road where her dad always parks. 

He’s a single parent. Something happened to her mom when she was really young. They don’t talk about it. She says he’s a decent dad, but sometimes too helicopter-y and super obvious. On our first ‘date’ he followed us and I ended up waving at him. Their faces. You could tell they were related from that alone. I was just happy to have a chance to apply my Executor training.

I thought her dad and I would get along because he’s in middle management and I’ve been told a kid my age shouldn’t be such a good cog in the local governmental machine. As our pretend relationship progressed, he liked that I was dating his daughter too much. Everyone likes me, but it’s a general level of like where they’ll smile politely, ask me how I’ve been, and what I’m doing. Then, I give them one personalized compliment, one general answer, one specific answer, and an almost self-deprecating joke. Then — well it’s a thing; I could go on forever. With Kayla’s dad, it’s always so great to see you, she talks about you so much, we should go hiking/fishing/camping together exclamation mark. He’s not interested in me; just that I’m treating his daughter the way he thinks she deserves to be treated by someone romantically interested in her. 

“Come on Dad, let’s go. Chris has to get home before nine.” 

The only time Kayla manages a stage-worthy sentence deserving of the standing ovation she so desires is when she’s admonishing her dad.

“Okay, okay already, let me start the car first.” He winks at me, “Stay gold, zoomer.” 

Kayla buries her face in her hands.

*****

These bounded fields around the Mission must be why Cherry asked me to meet her. I’m no expert but they were most likely activated just after sundown because she didn’t want to deal with the gap between day and night. As I walk up the stairs from the plaza, the air feels slightly colder and my face is getting tingly. If I blink, I’ll find myself walking in the other direction, believing I’ve finished whatever I came here to do. The first layer must be for general foot traffic.

“I’m home,” I call out. 

Cherry’s on her phone sitting by the foundation — reading a horror e-book, no doubt.

“Did you have a good time?” She looks up and tilts her head. “What did you get her?” 

“Tamales.” 

“This might be a little out of order, but you could have done better.” She touches her phone to her chest. 

I shrug. Kayla said she wanted tamales. “Thank you for waiting.” 

“Chris, I don’t want you falling into imaginary number space.”

Not a joke.

She gets up, pockets her phone, and starts to lead the way through the second layer of the bounded field. 

— Click, click. 

Soles on stone. 

We both immediately turn since the only people who can get through the first cognitive barrier are severely mentally ill, meditation gurus, absolute contrarians who blindly walk through life, or part of our world. 

A silver-haired woman with a man behind her. 

“Illy—” A somewhat familiar name I heard a little more than an hour ago chokes itself out from Cherry’s throat.

The illusory sonic boom accompanying the storm of divine Lesser Source annihilates that last syllable. Lancer gave me less than a second to react. Archer floors the pedal, instantly accelerating into godspeed. Sever Cherry’s head? Stab Cherry’s heart? Cleave Cherry in twain? His killing intent says he can do all three at once no matter what defense we paltry, pathetic humans can offer.

— Clang. 

Sparks light up the Mission steps as they do every year. Tonight, they’re not from the local fire-dancers, but crystallized mystery refusing to yield to bronze. 

Saber materialized just in time to save us. The inferno of released magical energy still blows us back. Push yourself back up and get away as fast as possible because Saber’s struggling. The lag time from materializing meant she could barely defend against the tempest raging up the Mission’s steps. She doesn’t need us to worry about. 

The rest of the world fades away as the edges of their swords lock. 

Archer with only one arm. 

Saber with the high ground but a disadvantageous stance. 

Archer’s the first to attempt breaking the stalemate; his forearm and bicep strain and then tighten as additional brute strength is brought to bear. 

Saber’s only reply can be fiery magical energy immolating her golden sword red. Even the ambient magical energy threatens to break through whatever defenses Cherry managed to muster. No, parts of the bounded field have already been broken, and like steam escaping through an exhaust, the pressurized magical energy evaporates into downtown Tolosa. 

The magical energy output of a quartet; no, order; no, battalion — Not just the quantity pouring out, but the very sanctity of the magical energy sunders every sense. Two demigods flagellate their mortal shells with divine flame until they’re purified of mortal sin, then, finally, released from this earthly coil. 

“MATOU! SAKURA —!” 

Unable to restrain what seems to be his entire purpose, Archer shouts at the figure behind Saber. 

He shouldn’t know _that_ name. I turn. 

She’s looking down, hair hiding her eyes, one arm across her chest gripping her other elbow. 

It’s not the name but how he bellowed it. Archer knows Cherry. That’s impossible, Servants don’t retain their memories from one summoning to the next. Imagine the paradoxes that would occur if they did. Then after he was summoned? 

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHCCCCCAAAAAAAAAA —!” 

In reply to Archer’s roar, Saber’s slack expression contorts itself until her face is nothing but lines as she screams in either anguish or hate. Passionate flames flow from her sword, swimming upstream to envelop Archer’s sole arm, licking at sparks of magical energy. The seconds the flames rush to immolate him seem like minutes to us watching. 

Archer burns on Saber’s pyre without batting an eye at the corroding flame that bathes his body. The instant gratification of catharsis burned off; his expression is as it was yesterday evening on top of that hill. The gold eyes set in that slate gray face focus solely on what’s in front of him, Saber’s flickering warm orange flames only lighting up the stalwart heroism glowing within. 

Seeing this, Saber hisses not in frustration, but with pure hatred at that immortality. There’s no life, no romance in that. A stone statue. An ice statue. If it can’t burn it's just as useless to her. So then, a stronger flame, a hotter flame. If it’s Saber, she can definitely produce one. 

Because humans don’t set things alight because they want to see things burn or to feel the warmth. That’s nothing more than a mechanical natural disaster; my thoughts and prayers to those caught in its conflagration. 

We’re different, she told me during lunch. She’s right. The statue aflame, shedding its mortality may be divine, but the doll striking flint against passion again and again, as it attempts to light the pyre to curse reality is — well it makes me feel warm inside. To be filled to the brim, yet to continue protecting the box she’s constructed for herself, she weighs her past and her dignity and has no choice but to burn off the excess. 

Saber’s sword, now an incandescent light-bulb yellow, begins to melt through Archer’s bronze sword. It’s clear who holds the greater mystery. But mystery alone does not determine the victor. The resolution alone in the Archer’s stance won’t let anyone watching forget that. It’s hopeless though, even if Archer won’t burn, the bronze sword finally catches aflame, and begins to smelt. I think I catch the faint sound of a pop or a squawk from the gasses being driven off.

Missing an arm and his weapon almost completely worthless, the giant, clothed in flames, retreats, hopping down the stone stairs, landing in front of his homunculus Master and her Tuner. Deprived of their source of magical energy, the glow of the yellow-orange flames softens, and then the embers wink out, leaving only his almost slate-skin unmarred. 

No doubt everyone other than the combatants is thankful for the reprieve, but this is still bad. If Archer and Saber continue fighting, they’re going to destroy the entire Mission. Cherry knows that; that’s why she, “Einzbern! W-What are you doing here?” 

The homunculus curtseys, her eyes are the same as when I first saw her in that high-school stadium. The grey snow that clouds the crimson hasn’t melted. “Fillia von Einzbern. Pleased to meet you, heiress of the Makiri.” With a gloved hand, she gestures to her companion, another familiar face. “My Tuner. You may call him Rich.” 

Rich bows. The shimmer from those blonde locks seemingly bounces into the street lamp as he offers a half-smile.

“Counterfeit as this Holy Grail War may be, our millennia-old undertaking requires the Einzbern to participate. We see the Makiri too have been drawn like moths to this Grail’s flame.” The homunculus says. Cherry’s downturned expression doesn’t change. Even if it did, she wouldn’t have stopped. “In accordance with the protocols agreed upon prior to the Second Holy Grail War, our only recourse is combat.” 

Fillia. . . von Einzbern. She definitely said that was her name. I know that name. It’s in Father Cervantes’s report from the Snowfield Grail War. Possessed by some mystery from the Age of Gods, the homunculus called a storm to destroy the entire township and twisted a forest into an otherworld. An alliance of Servants and Masters defeated the storm and she was eventually slain, so how can that be Fillia von Einzbern unless it’s a completely different homunculus using her name. 

“The Einzberns. . . the Einzberns are gone!” Cherry shouts, “Illya. . . ” 

“Hoy, witch.” A low-pressure system of murderous intent clings to the plaza like the mountain fog that rolls in from the Sisters on crisp winter mornings. The moisture seeps through your clothes, brushing your skin so the fine hairs stand on end, reminding you, there’s nothing you can do about the discomfort. The source, Archer, opens and closes his right hand a few times before materializing an exotic hide. “You have no right to say that name.” 

Everyone in the plaza knows how dangerous that hide is from the suffocating amount of magical energy leaking from it. I almost double over because I can’t breathe. My mouth is stuffed with a damp my meager circuit can’t dry. 

Something warm squeezing my shoulder breaks the illusion. It’s Cherry, eyes tightened but trying her best to reassure me with that rare straight smile.

“Chris, go inside. I can take care of this.” 

I really should because this doesn’t have anything to do with me. To be frank, I don’t think I would feel bad about leaving you here, Cherry, because I know how strong you and Saber are. But, God, stop speaking like you’re a dependable adult when your voice is clearly shaking. That means you’re scared, right. And that boy. . . would never leave the person who raised him when she’s scared. So I have to stay. 

The bubbles ignite, sending plumes of magical energy through an array of interlocking circuits to transform me into a machine that produces mystery. There’s no need to connect to a system tonight, just the flue gas is enough to announce my presence to everyone because while I don’t know anything about Fillia, the other two, Rich and Archer — are nice guys. Rich is a heretic so he doesn’t count. Archer, on the other hand, is a hero. Probably the greatest hero in the world.

“Good evening, sir. Hope you’re doing well.” I wave at Archer, trying to get his attention. 

He looks up and blinks once or twice, the suffocating aura around him deflating. “The boy-child from the trees. Easy to miss your minute figure amidst such radiant divinity and a witch. Well met, well met. How goes the Lamyros hunt?” 

Rich’s flat look drives daggers into me. Our conversation in front of Kayla at Farmers might have been a charade, but there was some level of mutual respect — the same type the regulars at Ahnenerbe all afford each other just because we’ve chosen to hang out in the same cafe. That’s gone. 

“Great hero,” Cherry slowly steadies her voice and bows, “I- Before we continue this duel, thank you for helping my ward, yesterday, even at the cost of your arm.”

“Your flattery is nothing but wind, witch.” There’s no way even this great hero will keep such a peaceful, casual, composure under his Master and Master’s Tuner’s contemptuous glowering. “Though I must admit your gratitude is sincere. I will not deny it.” 

Haven’t I learned to stop underestimating him? 

As long as he’s interacting with us, he isn’t trying to kill us. The problem is Saber. Although her sword is at her side, it’s still yellow and trembling. She still wants to set him alight — right, Mad Enhancement. Cherry must be talking her down telepathically, so negotiations are up to me. 

“Sir, yesterday you asked me to find you if I was ever hunting Lamyr— Dead Apostles. I-I have a new lead.” What a lie. 

“Why not ask your guardian and her Servant for help, kid?” So this is Rich as a magus. “Why not ask the overseer? Dead Apostles are a matter for your Church.”

‘Your Church,’ he said. Don’t let it faze you. 

“That’s the problem, Rich. Father Phahn is busy trying to neutralize Cherry and Saber, here.” Maintain the neutrality each day spent learning to oversee a Grail War drilled into you. “They’re busy responding to attacks from him and other Masters such as yourselves.” Now throw your hands up in the air in mock exasperation, “There's no one left to do good, honest Church work.” 

“Milady, please have Archer attack.” 

“The boy-child speaks of too common an occurrence. Many times innocent citizens have beseeched me to save them from foul monsters. I naively asked, what of your sovereign; doth he not stand with his people? They often reply that their kings had conscripted their men-folk to fight wars against neighboring city-states for their own selfish purposes, leaving none to protect the women and children. Despicable! This Lamyros is a threat to innocents. It harassed our broth— comrades-in-arms. What more reason do we need to hunt?”

“Archer, you would sully your contract to the Einzbern family for a Church picnic?” 

“Tuner. . .” Archer slowly looks back at a stone-faced Rich.

The contract can only function because the trine redirects the tension, circulating any contentious energy between Archer and Rich into their Master, the homunculus Fillia. What they feel for h— that artificial nature spirit, I don’t know, but Cherry might. 

“How about we come to an agreement, Fillia? Archer helps Chris with the vampire and in return. . . a duel with Saber to the death.” 

“Preposterous. We can finish this right n—”

“That opportunity still exists, we are ensuring an honorable exch—” 

Fillia’s misty red eyes favor neither appellate. They peer above the Mission into the skyline where the light pollution meets the sky. We all do because for an instant there was a flash of magical energy. Wispy, insubstantial even for magical energy, it was nothing like the solemn pressure emanating from Saber or Archer’s divinity that either dries or electrifies the air, respectively. A meaningless amount of magical energy, but it made us, even Rich, stop for an instant. Too pathetic, struggling to announce its presence to our world, it burned itself up in less than an instant. Yet, as everyone stopped to look, all the tension that bubbled up in this plaza didn’t boil over; it wafted away with that paltry breeze.

Archer, of course, is the first to recover. 

“I’ve decided. A Lamyros will be the perfect warm-up for challenging this burning warrior queen.” The cloth in his hands dematerializes. “Milady, Tuner, let us return to camp.” 

“Archer. . .” Fillia starts. 

Rich’s face doesn’t change. He already accepted the decision even if he doesn’t like it. A heretic’s determination bound to a higher purpose. 

“How can you trust the witch, Archer?” I was wrong. “After all she’s done, do you think she’ll keep this promise?” 

“I’m more than happy to make a binding contract.” Cherry walks down the stairs so she’s standing right beside Saber and level with the Einzberns.

Archer turns back, glancing at Cherry, his eyes can’t help but linger just a moment longer. He’s trying his best to rectify an image of her in his mind to the puny human in front of him. Eye contact breaks as the sound of crumbling concrete resound in the distance accompanied by police sirens and the hum of fire engines. Something happened in the parking garage two streets away from the Mission.

Archer begins to dematerialize as he walks down the plaza steps towards the snow-white homunculus and Tuner. Dismissively, “A witch’s contract is easily broken. I do not require any words from you —” 

“I-I swear on the name, Illyasviel von Einzbern,” Knuckles white, fist clenched, Cherry speaks.

His upper body quickly becoming insubstantial, Archer flicks his head back in our direction. Only for a second. I can’t read the expression in his distant eyes.

Fillia nods to both Cherry and me before following Archer’s nonexistent footsteps. 

Rich looks at us, shaking his head, “See you nice and early tomorrow, Chris. I’ll text you our address.” Dead Apostles come out at night, though. 

The heretical drains itself from Rich’s face leaving a quick, toothpaste commercial smile before he follows his mistress. 

I take a deep breath while Cherry is making sure Saber is okay. 

“But my pyre,” she almost hisses. 

Cherry pats her on the back. “Don’t worry Saber, your pyre will be built.” 

We pass the statue of the Mission’s founder holding a gigantic wood cross to reach the front entrance. The imaginary number space boundary layer has been thoroughly torn apart. It’ll take Cherry at least a full day to repair it. 

“What about the parking garage?” 

Holding the front door open, Cherry answers, “From the sound of it, Father Phahn and the clean-up crew have that taken care of. Anyway. . . after everything that’s just happened, you probably have some questions, right?” 

Yes, because now cooperating with the Einzberns is instrumental in finding and killing the Dead Apostle.

*****

The kitchen light is on the dimmest setting. Don’t want to wake Father Kelsey. Saber’s dematerialized, so it’s only the two of us and Chinese tea in a teacup that Cherry’s holding with both hands as if it didn’t have a handle.

“Who’s Illy—” 

“There’s a lot —” 

We slightly recoil from the kitchen table as our voices overlap. She looks down at her tea, so my gaze is level with her bangs. 

“Illyasviel von Einzbern. . . Illya was Sen— Shirou’s sister. She was a Master in the Fifth Fuyuki Grail War. She, Fillia, looked like her, grown-up.” 

Shirou. . . he’s Cherry’s lawyer boyfriend. He visits whenever he gets the chance, even helped repair my bike a few times. He also knew Dilo. I always thought it was strange he was Japanese and also a ginger. His sister being an Einzbern homunculus kind of explains that but opens up a whole can of worms that isn’t my business. 

“How did she. . .” Officially, there were only two Masters who survived the Grail War: Cherry and her sister. 

“Saving Shirou.” That explains why the Kotomine HGW-726-F5 report listed him as a casualty. “She was the strongest Master. . . and possibly the most advanced homunculus the Einzberns ever created. I think that’s why they shut down after her defeat.” Except for the remnants that fought in Snowfield. 

There’s something that doesn’t make sense. 

“If Illya died saving her brother, why do Rich and Fillia resent you? And Archer — what was that about?” 

She sips her tea while trying to force a smile.

“I. . . took Illya’s Servant and opened the gate she was coined to open.” 

All these years and I had forgotten. No, I didn’t forget, we were just talking about it at lunch today. I didn’t want to remember that Cherry is a Holy Grail. And because she was a Holy Grail, innocent people died in Fuyuki. Every time her boyfriend’s taken her out for a date, she’s had to reckon with whether their server or cashier lost someone because of her. Waking up every day knowing that you irreparably ruined lives and you’ll never be able to make up for that — she faces it all with that crooked half-smile printed on her face to feign nostalgia like whenever she tells me an anecdote about her life in Fuyuki. 

She’s said the damage could have been a lot worse if it wasn’t for the help of the Burial Agency’s No.7 and their assistance was a large reason why she agreed to move to Tolosa and consult for the Church. I think that’s why she worked so hard, training every employee, editing every protocol, attending meetings about setting up meetings along with her day job. If you were so haunted, Cherry, why did you become a Master again?

“Her Servant, Berserker, was Herakles. Archer looks less monstrous, but they’re very much the same Heroic Spirit. The Einzbern must have inserted his Berserker form’s memories into him.”

The Einzbern specializes in the flow and transfer of power. They can even shift consciousnesses into objects. Disregarding how conscious a Berserker really is, “The Einzbern family is gone. No one’s seen them after Snowfield. That homunculus, Fillia, she must be the very Einzbern from Snowfield.”

“Chris,” her violet eyes look straight into me. “The Einzberns are for me to worry about.”

She’s right. Archer will help me track the Dead Apostle. That’s all I need to know.

“Have you read the letter Dilo sent you?” 

Ummmm.

“Cherry, do you think I suck too much dick?” 

“What? Oh, Chris. . . Who said that to you?” She pushes her chair back, her brows slanted down, nose flared. “It wasn’t K—” 

“No, no,” I shake my head. “Just some drunk guy at Ahnenerbe when I was waiting for her.”

“Not to be rude, but the clientele there is. . .” 

“What do you mean? We’re the clientele.” 

“Look, Chris. . . You’ve made taking care of you these years so easy. No. . . that’s not what I meant to say. More. . . when I was your age, I mostly kept to myself, wishing for other people to fail. I was a bad girl. You don’t have the same eyes I did. You have kind eyes.” She walks over to the sink and turns on the faucet.

I can’t imagine a gloomy, hateful Cherry. She’s always so kind, supportive, and upbeat in a dignified sort of manner. Eh, she’s probably exaggerating how bad she used to be. 

“I should go to bed. Big day, tomorrow.” I yawn to show that I’m tired. Considering the day she’s had, Cherry should turn in too. “You aren’t patrolling tonight, are you?”

“Oh, no.” She doesn’t look back. “Saber’s strong. But she can’t win against both Lancer and Rider.”

Then tonight Lancer will be planting trees, unchecked. 

As I’m ready to leave something pops into mind, “Cherry. Was it correct to reveal yourself to Father Phahn?” 

She turns to face me while still drying her teacup with a dishcloth. 

“Correct does not necessarily mean Right,” her normally crooked smile straightens out. 

And here, I thought she only smiled like that when _he_ was around.


	32. 30/ Grace Note (II)

**30/ Grace Note (II)**

At the precipice between consciousness and dream, I see the old man. Ah, it must be because he’s told me this story so many times that I’m able to visualize everything in 1080p. 

The magical engine keeps the train running towards its destination while the passengers face the opposite direction. They’re all watching a black-haired woman in a kimono with a blonde secretary’s head in her lap. Don’t tell me the same old story, told the same old way. I don’t have the energy for that. I need to rest. I have more important things to do tomorrow and my arms aren’t fully healed. So close your eyes and let dark oblivion take you.

. . . 

Why can’t I go to sleep? 

I try to set aside the images — encapsulate the train within the depths of a frozen, disemboweling forest in the bubbles of the dark water where I began. Let me drown until I recede into tomorrow like every other night. But I can’t, for my consciousness slips its ethereal fingers into the folds on my brain, gripping and then dunking it into a tank of black and white film over and over. The liquid film slaps the organ so violently that white water foams around my hand doing the dunking. Within the bubbling tank, the scene tries to play, but the me on the outside, repulsed, reflexively pulls me out only to force me back in a second later.

— I told me, I don’t want to see this because I know what it is. 

Let the scene play through me so the information can corrode part of who I am. 

— I don’t want to end up as just another scorched mark on that island’s mountain. If I am to be filled, I want to be filled with the things that I should want to be filled with. That’s what he would have wanted because he’s a weak, pathetic — 

I’m human. I have to be human. But if I was a machine — a machine doesn’t stop existing no matter how many parts are replaced. As long as the core is present and the circuits aligned, the combustion engine will run. 

— Why? 

My answer is letting go, drowning me to affirm that this is not just the old man’s memory. That’s why I can see the old man’s reflection in the window, hear the accusations, smell the tension in the air, taste the chill from the receding blizzard, feel the rhythm of the train moving under all of us, and unlike last time, the exchange does not just become a record my brain compiles but a conscious memory to enslave me, us. 

“Ah yes, when Olga Marie took it out of the imaginary number pocket, Trisha's head was still alive. Anyway, within imaginary number magic formulae time is stopped. While there wasn't enough time to write a note, she chose to leave us with the starkest dying message. With her last breath, she left behind a single word. What do you think it was?”

Even Rich doesn’t come close to how she weaves words like a conductor’s baton. All the heretics in the room are entranced by something unpleasant. 

“It whispered. . . Karabo.” 

Murderous hostility assails me, but I know the story so it can’t hurt me. Because the old man survives, raised me, and is enjoying his retirement upstairs.

“Karabo Frampton,” she repeats. “Your Hindsight is determinative — no, strictly speaking, it’s more determinative than predictive?” 

Predictive — calculating the past from surrounding information to simulate a perspective. 

Determinative — choosing the past based on the present to affirm an interpretation. 

"It's often said that prediction or determination makes no difference to Hindsight. Unlike the future, the past is constant, so it doesn't matter how you look into the past. But, that's just the conventional wisdom. Yesterday's topic, the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception which imposes death equally of all that is seen, the Rainbow-ranked Mystic Eyes, is anything but conventional." 

On the verge of simmering, bubbles collect around my brain within the liquid film. I’m melting. Part of my brain is melting into this vat, mixing with the black and white, telling me to grab my eye that doesn’t exist. 

Why is the old man gripping his eye? The old man’s eyes aren’t those once-fabled eyes that now belong to two Japanese citizens, one with a lengthy Church file. 

“I've never seen such a mystic eye, but if you'll allow me to use my imagination and speculate for a moment. Wouldn't it be the supreme form of Foresight or at the very least one of the abilities that allow one to see fate?”

A moan comes out of the old man’s mouth, “The Mystic Eyes of Death Perception. . . are the supreme form of. . . Foresight.” The woman nods. Those words weren’t meant for her. 

“Naturally, everyone eventually dies. Because everything is imperfect, hidden within all is the wish to be beautifully broken and created anew. Looking at the end and reeling it into the present, what else can you call it other than the supreme form of Foresight,” she explains. 

The words that I managed to croak out are telling me to listen to the woman accusing the old man because she’s describing my natural enemy. That once upon a time, someone thought the world was unsatisfactory and it would be better to reject everything instead of facing an uncertain future — to create the absolute Right from Truth. What a lonely wish. 

"If that's the case, the opposite is also true. Everyone was born. Imperfectly born, we resent the original error. Looking upon the beginning and having it rise to the surface of the present would be the supreme form of Hindsight, no? Ahh, if that is the case, then the world might look like bubbles." 

Bubbles haunt the old man and me. That’s why we got along so well. That’s why he was chosen to be my foster-father. Who said that or was it never needed to be said. Something simply accepted. 

“Like a space-time bubble,” a snow-white wisp of a man forever on the edge of death and therefore the dearth of Father’s expectation until Mama made me a violin and gave me something to do interjects. 

“You’re familiar with the subject matter?” The black-haired woman encourages him. A possible expert witness can’t hurt. 

"I'm only familiar with the scientific concept. At extremely small scales, objects are known to be like aggregates of bubbles. I doubt what he sees is scientifically accurate, but would you say it's a concept close to that model?" 

“Probably just like that.” 

Replace the probabilistic electron cloud with a bounded field line sandwiched between two monolayers of mystery and strip away the nucleus because electrostatic interactions and gravitational fields aren’t necessary to hold the shell together. The past is not grains of memory and record dispensed from the present into three dimensions, but individual bubbles, until they aggregate, their interfaces brush and decide whether the individual flocculate or coalesce the narratives reflected on their surfaces. But no matter how numerous or large the bubble may be, they’re still hollow. 

“. . . Ah, unfortunately, unlike the rumored Mystic Eyes of Death Perception, this Mystic Eye mostly likely hasn't reached the extreme. It does not see the end. It does not see the beginning. At best, it recognizes and then calls forth a previously established past event — or something of that sort. Determinative Foresight establishes the future. Then it's obvious that Determinative Hindsight affirms what was established in the past. So, if we have cessation as the end of all things, it's natural that the beginning of all is activation. These Mystic Eyes revive the facts of the past in the present.”

Politely and meticulously explained, the logic reminds me of the monthly plinking contest at the shooting range where you’re given twenty-seven rounds to shoot twenty-seven empty cans arranged in a row. Entry fees go to a local cause of the winner’s choice. The Tolosa Sportsman Association calls it ‘having all your ducks in a row,’ after a line in a Stephen King novel one of the owners really found funny. Because even non-hunters know ducks never line up except when mother duck leads them over the hills and far away. Her words are just like the bubbles she’s trying to describe, expose, and cut-down. Are they established because they accurately describe a past or is it because she’s established consensus to the point nothing else could have happened in the past without new evidence? She didn’t even need that particular pair of Mystic Eyes. 

“In short, Mystic Eyes that reproduce what happened in the past?” Pink-hair, eye-patch, sobbing as the scratchy whirl of a cranial drill bit grinds against the skull to build the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, abbreviated artificial highway into my airhead.

"Yes, but what can be reproduced from the past should be limited. For instance, in this case, the pre-recorded slash was most likely played back at a specific time, like this."

She picks up an apple and a fruit knife. They must have been brought from the dining car. With a deliberate motion, she draws a vertical line in the air with the blade. 

“The slash is recorded here.” 

Then with her left hand, she moves the apple to where she drew the line and makes a small cut with the knife.

“After that, if the Mystic Eye holder observes it, the recorded slash severs the target. I would say this is how this Mystic Eye is used — what do you think. . .”

She looks at me. 

“Karabo Frampton.”

“Me. . .” There’s so much resistance in the throat that when the words spill out, it feels like having a tooth extracted. 

“On the Rail Zeppelin, it’s easy to lay the trap; after all, the train runs on rails.” She traces imaginary rails with the knife. “You slash at thin air in the preceding car with the knowledge Trisha’s head will eventually reach the same place. It’s easy enough to see where she was sitting and you could always increase the length of your slash to account for anything unexpected.” 

Everyone watches the apple traveling to the knife. When it finally reaches its predetermined destination, “The train had stopped in the woods when Trisha’s corpse was found. Karabo, you were outside. You looked through the window, recalled the past you perceived, and that area was slashed once again with Trisha Fellow’s head. At that moment, she sealed her head in imaginary number space.” 

This has everything/nothing to do with the old man/me. 

The eyes have been explained; that’s what my consciousness wanted to show my brain, right? Because of what the old man and I talked about this morning — how what he perceived eventually enslaved him and by baring that part of his soul, I would know better. That’s how a mentor and apprentice relationship goes. So me, let me go to sleep already. I have a Dead Apostle to hunt tomorrow — 

A white hat with a goatee tips the brim with my left hand and scratches sandy blonde hair under a toque blanche with my right as my left hand reloads a six-shooter because my right hand is clenched as I watch a moving company repossess my workshop, leaving only cobwebs as a reminder of the mysteries I once spun, “Hey, wait a sec, doesn’t that mean the serial killings seven years ago were. . .” 

The black-haired woman doesn’t let him finish, “I don’t know if you were the serial killer from seven years ago or even the killer this time around. There is no hard evidence. But in this case, there is one measure that we can take. Can you show me? If it’s you — if it’s your Mystic Eyes, no matter how far in the past she was decapitated, you can show us what actually happened.”

“My Hindsight can’t. . .” 

Because my eyes aren’t a mystery. 

“I want everyone to wait.” 

The door to the lobby opens and in walks a teenager in glasses whose heart broke as I fell down the pit of betrayal wheeling a man with long black hair crying on a bridge at my own helplessness. 

“Master!” 

“Waver!” 

Two shouts. 

“Finally awake, Lord El-Melloi II?” Even the woman who controls the room acknowledges him.

“There was a little accident and I’m still a little unsteady on my feet, so I asked my disciple to prepare a wheelchair with the help of the Rail Zeppelin staff. . . Impossible, I wouldn’t have thought Melvin would be here.” 

“Yo yo, It’s normal to come running when a buddy’s in a crisis!”

“This is none of your concern. And you’re the only one who calls us buddies.”

“Friendship is not formed from a mutual agreement! It’s the intermingling of our hearts! Unconscious approval of each other! Let us further open our hearts to each other and embrace!” 

What an agreeable young man. A little anemic and with the bags under his eyes of a predator unable to look away from its eventual meal, sure, but he’s pushing all his resentment into a positive space. Can’t fault him for that. 

“Okay, okay, just shut it.” 

“Professor, your body. . .” 

“There’s no problem. Really, there’s nothing. If there was, I wouldn’t have come out.” He strokes the top of her head through her hood’s ash-grey fabric. If she were a student at my school, the teachers would have her take it off indoors. 

“I heard about the situation from Caules. Many things have happened. . .”

“. . . Yes,” she nods. What emotion was lost within that simple answer? “So many things happened. . . so, so many things but I. . . couldn’t. . . but you, Professor. . . ”

“Ha, a Servant, a Child of Einnashe, imaginary number magecraft, and supreme Hindsight. So much crammed into half a day.” 

“Ho, where did you hear that from?” 

“‘You recalled the past you perceived and that area was slashed once again.' After hearing that much, you can guess what was talked about. Gray. . . we’ll talk about the Servant later.”

He lifts three fingers, his defensive trident. 

“Miss Hishiri, your story has three problems.” 

“Such a dramatic entrance has left me eagerly waiting for your deductions.”

“One, does Karabo’s Mystic Eye even have such an ability? Two, even if such an ability were to exist it does not preclude another magus from committing Trisha Fellows’ murder. Third, your deduction has no motive. There is no rational reason for Karabo Frampton to kill Trisha Fellows. You can’t corner people with such incompleteness.”

A deduction is an interpretation formed from the facts before one’s eyes. Facts are only dangling points in the ether begging to be connected or dismissed. To challenge a deduction is to challenge a constellation forever falling through a vacuum. 

“I see. Your forte, the whydunnit. As you say, the reason is unclear. Maybe the other magi could do something similar, but how do you explain Trisha’s dying message? Either way, we don’t follow the laws of a modern society nor are we police managing a state. In dubio pro reo. There is not even a trace of a reason why we should follow such a principle here.” 

She understands this.

“If you need a reason, then how about his Mystic Eyes of Hindsight made him identify as the serial killer. After gazing at the serial killer seven years ago, the serial killer mixed into him. If the Mystic Eye went out of control, then it’s easily probable.” 

He refuses to. 

“Are you being serious?”

“And serious equals sincere? Whether we’re serious or simply doing a bit doesn’t make a big difference. After all, we’re magi, Clock Tower magi. Don’t we have enough cause with what I’ve detailed to restrain Karabo? If it’s a question about ability, the evidence is right here.” 

“I’m telling you, I can’t do something like that,” I beg. 

“Ahhh, you’re telling me you can’t? That’s fine,” she laughs at me. “Karabo’s Mystic Eyes are on auction. Let’s hear what ability your Mystic Eyes have right from the Rail Zepplin’s mouth. 

_“Heh, these Mystic Eyes will do just nicely.”_

An illusion within an illusion imprinting its concept in the brain of all of us within the room, the rose woman sprouts from poor soil, a shaggy, crimson carpet. She is the regent who rules the train in her mistress's absence. 

_“It’s time. I’ll be taking them before the auction begins.”_

The room is silent. The rosy ghost is waiting for the old man to give his consent, but he won’t speak. No, he can’t speak because I’m the one who moves the mouth. But how can that be when I’m in my bed and it’s — 

“What. . . time. . . ?” 

“The staff should have told you. We remove your Mystic Eyes half a day before the auction.” 

Everything is wrong. I don’t have Mystic Eyes. You want the old man. Let me go upstairs to wake him up. Please. The old man is the one who should be having his eyes taken out. 

“W-Wait! There’s still —” 

Her fingers as cold and thin as a single sheet of glass slip into my face.

— someone you haven’t considered. 

The words never manage to croak out of my dry, sour throat because 

— Snap.

With the practiced, ghostly hand and precision of a witch doctor, she severs the spiritual body of my left optic nerve. Half the world and my breath disappear in an instant, snapping the film strangling my overheating brain. I wasn’t given even the seconds necessary to scream because she finished her spiritual surgery and collected my right eye in less than a second. 

I can’t see because what she took were my ~~stic~~ eyes. 

I can’t breathe. I try to draw breath, but all the oxygen was sucked out when my eyes were plucked out. Sucked out? No, it’s used as propellant to set my melting brain on fire. Soon the smoke will ignite the liquid film but my consciousness refuses to pull my brain out. I grab at my chest because it hurts and because there’s no longer anything to see. I collapse. 

“Acting manager.” Then, the sound of the old man’s eyeballs splashing. “With this, the Mystic Eye extractions are complete.” 

“We can do transplants, but extraction is a secret technique only the acting manager knows. Usually, she’s asleep and after she waves her hands about, she’ll go back to sleep,” someone I can no longer recognize says. 

Sleep. Right. Go back to sleep. You’ll wake up. This is just a bad dream. You can’t breathe properly because your face is under the covers again, so just — 

“Oh. . . this is amazing. I don’t think Karabo was aware of this but these eyes reach ‘Jewel’ rank. They’re very suitable as our auction’s eye-catcher. The long-gone shadow of the past raises up to the present like foam, shall we call these the Mystic Eyes of Transience?”

Cigarette burns begin to blacken the voided film, artificially aging it like parents do to children’s treasure maps. Soon the offending memory will be forsaken, so affirm the past burning away until it’s nothing but black snow in your mind, for everything is. . . 

No, this is real, my dying brain screams, forcing me to accept my other senses. 

What is happening to you on that train will continue until it reaches the event horizon known as the present. The accusation will chug along to auction. The auction is struck down by frenzied lightning summoned using the distortion of one Ancestor’s train and another Ancestor’s sterile child to create a crenel to be filled until it becomes a temporary paradise, just like this town nestled in the bosom of the California Central Coast’s Seven Sisters that means nothing to Dead Apostles. 

Dead. . . Apostles. . . 

That’s right tomorrow you — 

“HAAAAH —” 

Pure darkness reverts to grayscale to discrete black and white as my consciousness pulls my brain out of the smoking film vat. I seal away everything that just happened somewhere that won’t scald me and focus on the only one question on my mind that can’t be related to anything I experienced. 

How did someone install a Grail on this land, and more importantly, why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 — End


End file.
